


First Flight

by EllieL



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer-arc, Dog(s), Horses, Season/Series 04, UST, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-07
Updated: 2004-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieL/pseuds/EllieL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully meet a woman who may provide answers about the origins of Scully's cancer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: This is for Niki, who taught me so much, and the memory of Mosby's, which will be much-missed.  
> Major beta thanks to XScribe for comments, advice, and smoothing over the rough edges.  
> Originally published 2004.
    
    
    ****
    
    First Flight: those in the hunt field who follow most directly the  
    hounds and hunt staff in pursuit of their quarry, at speed and  
    over obstacles
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 1  
    ****
    
    "And this woman got in touch with you how, exactly, Mulder?"  
    Scully rifled through the sparse file for the tenth time as Route  
    50 led them out of Washington's bustle and towards the  
    manicured fields of Virginia.  The information in the folder  
    consisted of little more than directions and a few pages of  
    Mulder's messy scrawl, written as he spoke with Beatrice  
    Stevens.
    
    "By phone."  A glance at Scully told him that response was  
    neither satisfactory nor amusing.  "Actually, I'm not sure how  
    she found my name.  But she has an interesting history of half-  
    ties to the government, and I suspect some of her family has  
    worked for the same men as our cigarette-smoking friend.  But  
    she seems legitimate enough, and experienced some interesting  
    phenomena regarding her animals.  I told her we would be happy  
    to come meet with her."
    
    "Interesting phenomena regarding her..." she paused and  
    scanned the folder.  "Corgis and horses?"  The weariness of so  
    many wild goose chases seeped through in her voice.
    
    Mulder shifted in his seat, searching for something to spark her  
    interest.  "Her husband, now deceased, worked for the State  
    Department, but she was never sure in what capacity.  Her father  
    worked at the British Embassy and other members of her family  
    are still involved in the British government."
    
    "Wouldn't all that make her less likely as a target of 'interesting  
    phenomena'?  Surely people would have taken her seriously if  
    she'd brought accusations of wrongdoing to light."
    
    "You'd think, but I'm wondering if they were counting on both  
    upper class reluctance to talk of things out of the ordinary and an  
    active travel itinerary leading to her not wanting to talk or failing  
    too notice anything to talk about."
    
    "Which leads to the question of why she's talking now."
    
    "Apparently the only things you don't mess with are her animals.  
    When microchips were found in two of them, she had them  
    removed.   Within a year, both of those she had chips taken out  
    of developed cancer."
    
    "Oh."  Scully fell silent as they passed a wooden sign welcoming  
    them to historic Aldie.
    
    Mulder was troubled by her silence, but accepted it as he made a  
    left onto a smaller road.  "Where am I going after this?"  He  
    reached for the directions lying on the dash.
    
    She grabbed them first, speaking safely as navigator.   "Go two  
    miles on this road.  Her farm is on the left, with two grey stone  
    pillars marking the drive.  Avalon?"
    
    He shrugged it off.  "She was an English teacher.  Maybe it's a  
    literary choice."
    
    "Right."
    
    Both fell silent as they turned into the drive.  Maples lined the  
    drive, forming an archway of bright new leaves over the car.  
    Newly green fields rolled away to either side, bright in the spring  
    morning.  Dark wood boards enclosed them, three planks to the  
    left, where a few horses could be seen grazing; chicken wire with  
    a single plank surrounded the right field.  It existed in urbanized  
    northern Virginia like an anachronism from a fifties film or and  
    old novel.
    
    The house that appeared when they reached the end of the drive  
    fit perfectly into the setting.  A two story redbrick colonial, it was  
    possessed of the easy grace of age and money.  Ivy twined up  
    columns that may have been white, while forsythias blossomed in  
    bright contrast to the brick.  Two steps led from the portico to the  
    circular drive where Mulder stopped the car.
    
    They remained silent as they stepped up to the portico, their  
    shoes confidently announcing their arrival in a muffled staccato.  
    With less confidence, Mulder raised a hand to the brass knocker,  
    rapping on the fixture.  A lingering finger traced over the  
    engraved "s" as he released it.  He stepped back as the door  
    swung open.
    
    Had either of them been asked to describe the imagined  
    inhabitant of the house, the woman appearing before them would  
    have certainly fit the description.  Graying blonde hair was swept  
    back from her face, revealing pearl earrings the size of gumballs.  
    Bright blue eyes were made more striking by a silk scarf around  
    her neck, yet there was something practical in her white linen  
    shirt and jeans.  Beyond her, in the foyer, stood a silent pack of  
    corgis, foxy faces taking in the visitors.
    
    "Hello, welcome to Avalon. You can't be anyone but Agents  
    Mulder and Scully."  She extended a hand to each of them in  
    turn, before sweeping it aside to invite them in.  "Come in, come  
    in, don't mind the dogs.  Unless you're allergic, of course.  Are  
    either of you?"
    
    "No, the dogs are fine."  Mulder noted the smile creeping over  
    Scully's face as Beatrice Stevens spoke, and he couldn't help but  
    grace their interviewee with one as well.
    
    "Wonderful.  You can never be too careful now, though, with  
    people allergic to everything left and right.  Can I take your  
    coats?  Miriam!"  Her voice rang with authority across the  
    granite and plaster hallway.
    
    A maid appeared, footsteps barely registering on the slate floor.  
    "Yes, Mrs. Stevens?"
    
    "Please take their coats, then bring tea into the office for us."
    
    Mulder and Scully had no choice but to follow her as she opened  
    a door to their right, ushering both them and the dogs through.  
    Once inside, they didn't make it two steps before they were both  
    struck by the urge to look around the room.  Its central feature  
    was a large, dormant fireplace, overhung with a painting of a  
    huntsman.  The walls were lined with books of all varieties, on  
    shelving perfectly matched to the mahogany furniture.  Mulder  
    barely registered the dog hairs on the cream upholstery, but he  
    did notice Dante's "Divine Comedy" shelved next to Goethe's  
    "Faust," and a shelf of Shakespeare's plays before drawing his  
    attention back to their hostess' voice.
    
    "...was my father," she was saying to Scully as she gestured to  
    the painting over the fireplace.  "He was the Chief of Staff at the  
    British Embassy in Washington from the time I was twelve, and  
    owned this property for years.  Fox hunted all his life, and spent  
    his retirement as a field master.  He hunted the day before he  
    died, actually. "
    
    An open doorway led them from the library into an office space,  
    done in an inversion of the burgundy and cream of the previous  
    room.  Brightly colored ribbons formed a border around the top  
    of the room, and Mulder squinted to read them.  Some were  
    marked with horses and emblazoned with names he vaguely  
    recognized as towns in the vicinity, Upperville and Culpeper and  
    Middleburg, while others had dogs and names of kennel clubs he  
    failed to recognize, excepting Harrisburg and Westminster.  
    Scully brushed past him, stepping closer to a sideboard that drew  
    his attention primarily because it piqued Scully's interest.
    
    An array of sparkling silver frames filled a long table.  At the  
    front were pictures of the Stevens family--a young boy waving in  
    front of Big Ben, a pair of little girls in tutus--while deeper layers  
    showed yellowing shots of a younger Mrs. Stevens with a corgi  
    with a Best in Breed ribbon from Westminster Kennel Club, a  
    different pair of little girls on a sled, the same little girls again  
    on ponies, a young boy with a tennis racquet.  Most striking in the  
    silver were black and white pictures, and one of two women on  
    horseback with hounds was particularly stunning.
    
    "Is that you with--?"
    
    Mrs. Stevens cut Scully off with a nod, and came over to the  
    table, bustling with pride and joy at someone's interest in her  
    photos.  "Yes, it is.  Everyone who sees it asks.  Mrs. Kennedy.  
    My husband and his father both worked at the State Department,  
    and my father at the Embassy.  Somehow they volunteered one  
    of my horses for her use hunting with us one weekend. I always  
    had at least two, one to show and one to hunt, though the show  
    horse hunted and the hunt horse occasionally showed.  My  
    husband and father-in-law had a fit when I told them she was  
    welcome to hunt my hunter, not my show horse."
    
    She reached past Scully and picked up the simple four by six  
    frame.  "We had an awful row about it, but I stood by what I  
    said, because as fancy as Karenina was, she had only been  
    hunting once with me and had a nasty buck.  So Mrs. Kennedy  
    rode Heathcliff, who'd been hunting for years and didn't have a  
    mean bone in his body.  She had a wonderful day, and ended up  
    hunting him twice more over the season.  I ended up with a  
    broken wrist after being bucked off, not an hour after this picture  
    was taken."
    
    Beatrice chuckled and replaced the picture with a measure of  
    reverence.  "Have a seat, please."  Another frame was snatched  
    from the table as she moved to sit behind her desk.
    
    A knock sounded and the maid entered, carrying a silver tea  
    service.  There was a long, awkward silence as the young woman  
    poured cups of steaming tea.
    
    As she closed the door, Mulder cleared his throat.  "Mrs.  
    Stevens, thank you for inviting us out to your lovely home to  
    speak with us."
    
    "If I'd known you were such a handsome young man, I would  
    have called you sooner.  And please, call me Beatrice.  Only the  
    help and my old students call me Mrs. Stevens."
    
    "Of course, Beatrice."  Mulder smiled and turned on the charm,  
    though he sensed it probably wasn't necessary with this shining  
    example of upper-crust southern hospitaility.
    
    "Beatrice," Scully cut straight to the heart of the matter, "when  
    you spoke with Agent Mulder on the phone, you discussed some  
    interesting phenomena with several of your dogs and horses."
    
    "Yes, I did, Agent Scully."  She stared for a moment at the  
    picture frame she'd placed on her desk before setting the  
    photograph of her at Westminster up to face them.  "This was  
    Champion Avalon's Noble Sir Galahad.  He won best in breed at  
    Westminster twice, and was group winner once.  Galahad was  
    the best show dog I've had in fifty years of breeding and  
    showing.  He was whelped in 1978, and was at his peak as a  
    show dog when he disappeared for almost a month in 1981.  
    Paul--Mr. Stevens--was out of the country on business, as he  
    often was, and I had been away at a horse show for the weekend.  
    When I came home Sunday evening, he was gone from the  
    kennels.  Everything was still locked, nothing out of place, none  
    of the other dogs were missing.  I called the police, my friends at  
    the local shelters, no sign of him.
    
    "Then in late August, I was out hacking one of my young horses,  
    and he came trotting out of the brush.  He was filthy, and had a  
    few cuts, but was otherwise fine.  In fact, after that, he was  
    unnaturally healthy.  He never developed arthritis, and remained  
    spry into his teens.  Then my son, Thomas, came home drunk  
    from a party one evening, and bumped into a table, knocking over  
    one of the dog's trophies.  It fell on Galahad, and tore up his  
    shoulder.  I was worried about breakage, as he was lame on it,  
    and had x-rays done."  She paused, almost dramatically.  "His  
    shoulder was fine, but there was a piece of metal in his neck."
    
    Reaching into the top drawer of the desk, she withdrew a set of  
    keys and unlocked another drawer on the upper left of the desk.  
    Delicately, she removed a porcelain pillbox and sat it at the center  
    of the desk, before giving it a slight nudge in the direction of her  
    guests.
    
    Scully reached over and took the box, opening it to reveal a small  
    metallic dot in the white box.  She tilted it towards Mulder as  
    Beatrice continued.
    
    "I have no idea what that was, or how it could have gotten into his  
    neck.  I assumed it had happened somehow while he was  
    missing all those years before.  This was before it was possible  
    to put identification chips into one's pets.  Paul said it was just  
    trash, and told me to throw it away, but I've held on to it these six  
    years.  Six months after I had the vet take it out, I noticed  
    Galahad's stomach looking swollen, though he'd been eating less,  
    and took him back in.  He had a tumor the size of a baseball,  
    which we removed, though not soon enough.  Cancer had spread  
    to his blood and he was dead within a year.  At the time, he was  
    in his early teens, and such things aren't unusual for dogs of that  
    age, sad though they may be."
    
    Scully's brow furrowed, and she took advantage of Beatrice's  
    pause.  "Was Galahad examined by the veterinarian when this  
    piece of metal was removed?  Did your veterinarian notice note  
    the developing tumor at that time?"
    
    "Oh, well of course.  I had a complete workup when we found  
    the chip, just to make sure there weren't any other bits of metal  
    that we'd missed.  There were no signs of anything wrong with  
    him.  As many x-rays as were done, I would think the vets would  
    have noticed a tumor of that size developing."
    
    "Would you object to our contacting your vet's office, to see if  
    they still have the x-rays?"  Mulder sat to the edge of his seat,  
    preparing to fetch the x-rays that instant.
    
    "No."  Beatrice shook her head, and Mulder deflated.   "Well,  
    you can call Dr. Carruther's office, but he doesn't have the files  
    on Galahad.  I took them after we had him put down.  They're in  
    my files somewhere, just give me a moment."
    
    She rose and turned to shuffle through the filing cabinets behind  
    her.  Mulder shifted eagerly in his seat, barely noticing as a corgi  
    puppy sidled up to Scully's chair.  He glanced over at her as she  
    stretched down to pet its head.  For a split second he envied the  
    puppy, then dismissed his foolishness.
    
    Beatrice turned back from the filing cabinets, an immense manila  
    file in hand.  "Here we are.  Oh, who's managed to beg some  
    attention from you, Agent Scully?"  She peered over the desk as  
    she laid down the file.  "Tristram.  He's such a spoiled little runt.  
    Galahad's great grandson, but not half the dog Galahad was.  
    Still, he'll make a nice companion for someone."
    
    She flipped through the folder until she reached an envelope,  
    which she pulled out and passed across the desk to Scully.  
    "These are all of them."
    
    Scully took the envelope, removing her attention from the puppy  
    at her side to open it and flip through the neatly labelled films.  
    Mulder watched her skim over them until she found one of the  
    shoulders, neck, and forelegs.  He could see the trepidation as  
    she held it up to the bright spring light streaming through the  
    windows.  The microchip was clearly visible, a bright spot  
    between the skin's ghostly outline and the solid forms of the  
    scapula.
    
    "May we take these with us, Beatrice?"  She dropped it back into  
    the pile on her lap.
    
    "Oh, certainly, certainly."
    
    Mulder broke in.  "Would we be able to take the chip with us,  
    too, for our experts look at?"
    
    "Quite all right with me."
    
    "Has anything similar occurred with any of your other dogs?"
    
    "Not with the dogs, Agent Scully.  After that happened with  
    Galahad, I had all of my dogs checked.  I traveled so frequently,  
    a dog could have been gone for several weeks at some point and  
    I would never have known.  Nothing was found in any of mine,  
    but I rather wonder about all the dogs I'd sold on to other homes.  
    But I have recently realized that several of my horses may have  
    experienced something similar."
    
    "What made you suspicious about them?" Scully asked.
    
    "Marks on their withers, though I first noticed them years ago."
    
    This was met with puzzled looks from both Mulder and Scully.  
    After a pause, Scully managed, "Do you mean scarring, as if  
    surgery had been performed?  And where exactly?"
    
    The older woman nodded.  "I noticed that two of my mares had  
    white hair growing on their withers--where the neck joins the  
    shoulders.  That's normally a sign of a saddle rubbing them, but  
    their saddles never did. I had the saddler check them when I  
    noticed, as they were both being shown at the time, but we  
    couldn't find a cause. Paul convinced me that it was probably just  
    a random pasture injury, which seemed plausible enough.  
    Ophelia I had worked over before she was sent off to be bred last  
    spring, and the veterinarians found a similar piece of metal to the  
    one I had removed from Galahad.  Like with Galahad, I had the  
    chip removed, though the vets disposed of this one.  The  
    breeding never took, and she's developed several melanomas  
    since the summer, which aren't terribly common in black horses."
    
    "You said there were two horses?"  Scully jotted quick notes on a  
    small tablet.
    
    "Yes, the other was Tinkerbelle, who had been my daughters'  
    show pony.  She's in her thirties now, and has been a pasture  
    puff since the girls outgrew her.  But I couldn't bear to part with  
    her.  I noticed her markings around the same time as Ophelia's,  
    but I've never had anything done about them.  Like Galahad  
    before the removal of his chip, Belle's still very spry and feisty,  
    carrying on like a ten-year-old."
    
    "And these horses never disappeared as your dog did?"
    
    "I can't say for certain, Agent Mulder.  Definitely not that  
    weekend, and never to my knowledge, but that doesn't mean they  
    couldn't have vanished at some point without my noticing.  After  
    the children were old enough, I often acted as both an instructor  
    and chaperone for the Foxcroft interim trips abroad, and would  
    be gone for a month.  Especially once Julia and Charlotte were  
    old enough to be enrolled and accompany me, they could have  
    been gone.  I went every year then.  But Paul made it a point to  
    stay here during those times, to keep an eye on Thomas.  He  
    would have noticed if they went missing."
    
    "You don't have any reason to suspect your husband would have  
    not told you if they'd disappeared and were returned while you  
    were gone?"  Mulder hoped he'd been tactful.
    
    For a long moment, Beatrice sat, her brow furrowed.  "While he  
    was alive it never occurred to me that he would try to hide  
    anything like that from me, even if he thought it would upset me.  
    But after he passed last winter, and I began thinking about things  
    like this, it did become more suspect.  He never wanted me  
    delving into things, and was dismissive of my concerns about  
    them."
    
    "Was he that way in general?"  Scully asked.
    
    "Oh, no.  Normally he panicked anytime something went wrong  
    with the animals.  He was fine with them when they were healthy,  
    but useless when they weren't."
    
    "Both of these horses are still in your possession?"
    
    "They all have a home for life with me.  Would you like to meet  
    them?"
    
    Mulder's nod set Beatrice back into motion, though he noticed a  
    slight hesitation on Scully's part.  How could she not be  
    intrigued by this, and eager to see living proof, he wondered.
    
    ****  
    Chapter 2  
    ****
    
    Beatrice left them standing by the fence as  
    she went into the ten stall barn to  
    retrieve halters for her horses.  Mulder  
    turned to face Scully, the spring sun  
    warming his back, his tall form casting a  
    shadow over her face.
    
    "What do you think?"  There was an edge of  
    cautious enthusiasm in his voice.
    
    She turned her face out of his shadow,  
    gazing over the pasture where the horses  
    had raised their heads to examine the  
    intruders to their world.  "She's certainly  
    noticed some interesting coincidences with  
    both her dog and her horses, and while she  
    seems solidly eccentric in the way only the  
    wealthy can be, she also appears to be  
    honest.  However, what she perceives as the  
    truth may be a far cry from what the truth  
    actually is.  I'd like to speak with the  
    veterinarians about the animals' health in  
    general."
    
    He could do little more than nod in  
    response as he saw Beatrice emerge from the  
    stable, leather halters slung over each  
    shoulder.  Both agents jumped slightly as a  
    high, clear whistle escaped her lips.  
    Before she'd crossed the half dozen steps  
    to their side, the dull thunder of  
    hoofbeats over grass was growing louder  
    behind them.  Beatrice didn't hesitate,  
    walking straight for the green gate.  Eight  
    horses met her there in short order, and  
    she dropped one halter and rope into the  
    grass before opening the gate and stepping  
    into the herd.
    
    Mulder could barely follow her head through  
    the tangle of horses, until she returned to  
    the gate with a black mare.  When she  
    opened the gate, the mare plodded out after  
    her, raising no fuss when she paused to  
    relatch the gate.
    
    "Meet Ophelia," she said as she tied the  
    mare to a fencepost in an elaborate knot  
    that Mulder vaguely remembered from  
    childhood.  "Come closer, she won't bite.  
    You can see the first white mark I noticed  
    here."  She touched the mare's withers and  
    a patch of white hair marring them.
    
    Mulder eyed the horse warily, crinkling his  
    brow as he looked at what seemed to be a  
    blindfold on her face.  Scully took a step  
    closer to Beatrice, tentatively patting the  
    animal's shoulder.  Before Mulder could ask  
    about the mask on the horse, Beatrice  
    reached up and pulled it off with a rip of  
    Velcro.
    
    "Poor darling started developing carcinomas  
    in the summer.  They're relatively common  
    in gray horses, but rare in darker colored  
    animals.  I've had a few grays that have  
    developed them, but they've never grown and  
    spread this rapidly.  Then last month, I  
    noticed something amiss with her eye.  She  
    has a carcinoma there.  Again, those aren't  
    uncommon in horses, but are most often seen  
    in Appaloosas or Paints with white around  
    the eye--not in Thoroughbreds.  I've been  
    keeping a fly mask on her to keep it  
    somewhat protected, but I don't know that  
    it makes much difference."
    
    Scully was silent as she ran her hands over  
    the mare's dull black coat, dropping them  
    as the horse pulled away from the fingers  
    tracing the outline of her eye.  "What has  
    your vet had to say about this?  Do you use  
    the same vet for your dogs and horses?"
    
    Beatrice shook her head, reaching up to  
    scratch the mare between her ears as she  
    did so.  "No, I have an equine practitioner  
    for the horses and a separate small animal  
    vet for the dogs.  Both have clinics up the  
    road in Middleburg.  I've had Ophelia up to  
    be examined by Virginia Tech's equine  
    center in Leesburg as well.  Everyone's  
    been puzzled by the aggressiveness and  
    rapid progress of the cancer, which is  
    normally fairly benign.  We had surgery  
    scheduled for two weeks ago-just a few  
    weeks after we found it, mind you-and by  
    that point, it was already too far gone to  
    operate.  She's lost approximately eighty  
    percent of her vision in that eye.  It  
    looks as if the tumor is eating through the  
    eye itself.  Their best advice at the  
    checkup last week was to put her down, and  
    I can't disagree.  She's being put down on  
    Monday."  Her voice remained matter of  
    fact, even in announcing the death sentence  
    pronounced for the horse her hand rested  
    on.
    
    Mulder was startled at the casualness in  
    her tone.  "You don't sound very broken up  
    about that."  His gaze locked on Scully as  
    he spoke, watching as she once again traced  
    her hand down the mare's neck.  Mulder  
    stepped closer to her, ostensibly peering  
    at the mare's clouded eye, but taking the  
    opportunity to drop his hand onto the small  
    of Scully's back.
    
    "Every story ends in death, Agent Mulder.  
    I've been raising horses and dogs all my  
    life, and have been hunting since I could  
    ride.  You come to gain a sense of respect  
    for the cycle of life and death that way.  
    These animals give us their hearts; it's  
    our duty to see that they find a fitting  
    end."  There was steel in her voice, and  
    she met his eyes as she continued, "It  
    doesn't mean I love her any less.  She  
    raced as a youngster, produced two lovely  
    foals, had ten years as a show horse, and  
    hunted.  She's had a good life, and my only  
    regret is that her cancer and the  
    euthanasia will prevent me from giving her  
    the end that truly befits a good hunter."
    
    Scully's gaze turned from the mare's neck  
    to the pasture, where the other horses were  
    now grazing by the fence.  A moment of  
    tense silence hung before she continued,  
    "Most live out their lives in the pasture,  
    then, after retiring?"
    
    Beatrice sighed and looked from Scully to  
    Mulder and back.  "Most do, yes," she  
    began, speaking carefully.  "But that's not  
    what I meant in this case.  It's considered  
    a proper end after the death of a good  
    field hunter for its body to be butchered  
    and fed to the foxhounds.  It sounds a bit  
    shocking to you, I'm sure, but it's a sign  
    of great respect for the horse, for its  
    body to end in the cycle of hound, fox, and  
    horse."
    
    "Like a sailor to the sea."  Scully's voice  
    was far away.
    
    "Exactly."  Beatrice nodded solemnly to  
    Scully.  She reached up and began to  
    replace the fly mask on the mare.  "She  
    should have an end such as that."
    
    Without another word, she untied the horse  
    and led her back to the gate, releasing her  
    and reaching down for the other halter in  
    the grass.
    
    This time she emerged from the tangle of  
    horses with a brown and white paint pony,  
    who she tied just as she had done with the  
    mare.  Mulder stepped closer, less  
    intimidated by the smaller creature.  As he  
    did so, the pony tried to turn and look at  
    them, placing its hoof squarely on Mulder's  
    toes.
    
    "Belle!"  Beatrice's voice was very nearly  
    a growl, and she gave the pony a firm swat  
    on the shoulder with her palm.  It  
    immediately stepped off Mulder's foot.
    
    Scully turned to him as Beatrice dealt with  
    the unruly pony.  One eyebrow arched  
    slightly in concern as she watched him hop  
    a few steps backward.
    
    "Ah.  I'm-uh--I'm fine. Really."  Mulder  
    wiggled his toes inside his shoe before  
    retreating behind Scully, out of the pony's  
    range.
    
    "I should have warned you, I apologize.  
    Tinkerbelle is smaller than Ophelia, but is  
    a much bigger brat.  Ponies."  She shrugged  
    and turned to glare at the pony, who stood  
    innocently, an ear swiveled back to catch  
    her voice.  "If they think they can get  
    away with something, they'll try it.  By  
    her age, though, it's rather unusual.  She  
    taught both my daughters to ride and is now  
    in her mid-thirties.  I've known several  
    who lived as long, but none that stayed so  
    healthy.  She's shown no signs of  
    arthritis, of joint problems, of vision  
    problems, nothing.  Because of her  
    coloring, Tink's a much more likely  
    candidate for carcinomas than Ophelia, but  
    has never had a problem.  I don't think  
    this pony's taken an off step in at least  
    fifteen years."
    
    Scully eyed the pony, then ran her hand  
    lightly over its shiny coat, just as she  
    had with the mare, stopping at the withers.  
    "This is the same mark the larger mare had.  
    But you can hardly notice it, with all the  
    white on her.  You're sure she has the same  
    type of subcutaneous chip the other animals  
    had?"
    
    "I had all of them x-rayed after the chip  
    was found in Ophelia.  This is the only  
    other mare I have, and the only other horse  
    with a chip.  But I didn't have this one  
    removed."
    
    "Why did you decide to leave hers, after  
    removing the other two?"  Scully continued  
    the line of questioning.
    
    "By that time, I was already noticing the  
    tumors on Ophelia, and was wondering if  
    they might be related.  There was no reason  
    to remove it, either, as it didn't seem to  
    be harming her, however long it has been  
    there."
    
    "Those x-rays are all with your vet?"
    
    "All of the horses', yes.  Let me put her  
    back, and I'll get you their number from  
    the tack room."  Beatrice untied the pony,  
    who immediately tried to take a bite of the  
    leadrope.  After replacing the pony in the  
    field, she once more disappeared into the  
    wooden barn, carrying the halters.
    
    Scully sighed and looked down at Mulder's  
    feet.  "Is your foot all right?"
    
    "Yeah, it's fine, really.  Better me than  
    you in those fancy shoes, anyway.  But that  
    little thing was surprisingly heavy."  He  
    bounced back and forth, offering proof of  
    his well-being.
    
    "It's not the size, it's the way that you  
    use it."  She quirked an eyebrow up at him.
    
    "And just what do you mean by that, Agent  
    Scully?"
    
    "I'm telling you that you shouldn't make  
    assumptions based on size, Agent Mulder."  
    A smile teased at the corners of her lips.
    
    Mulder chuckled softly, sobering when  
    Beatrice approached again.
    
    "This is the number for the Middleburg  
    Equine Clinic.  It's about fifteen minutes  
    down the road.  Just continue on fifty  
    west, through Middleburg, then make a right  
    at the fourth crossroads.  Ask for Dr. June  
    Miller.  I'll call her and ask her to make  
    a copy of Ophelia and Tinkerbelle's records  
    for you."
    
    Scully took the business card from  
    Beatrice, glancing briefly at the number  
    before tucking it into the manila case  
    folder.  "Thank you, Beatrice.  I look  
    forward to taking a look at those records.  
    Is your dogs' veterinarian based out of the  
    same offices?"
    
    "No, the clinic is strictly equine  
    practitioners.  Dr. Carruthers is at the  
    Animal Hospital, just past the town sign as  
    you enter Middleburg.  I'll call ahead to  
    him, too, if you like."
    
    "That would be wonderful."
    
    "Is there anything else you need?"
    
    "No, you've been very helpful.  Thank you  
    for your time, and the tea."  Mulder smiled  
    and reached out to shake Beatrice's hand.
    
    She took the hand, and then offered hers to  
    Scully.  "You're very welcome, and are  
    welcome here any time if ever you have more  
    questions."
    
    "We will, thank you."  Scully's hand on  
    Mulder's forearm was the impetus needed to  
    set both of them moving uphill, towards  
    their car.
    
    ****
    
    Two new folders had joined the initial one  
    on the table at Mosby's.  Each was nearly  
    two inches thick, the paperwork proof of  
    two impeccably cared for animals.  Both  
    were spread open in front of Scully, who  
    was making the best of waiting for her tuna  
    salad on toast.
    
    "I have to admit that I don't feel  
    qualified to comment on any of this yet.  
    Not until I can dig out some veterinary and  
    equine anatomy texts and brush up my  
    knowledge.  I'm afraid I haven't had to  
    know anything about horses since my  
    undergraduate days."  She shook her head  
    and shuffled through several more of the  
    pages in Ophelia's folder.  "But from these  
    records, I can't see anything that appears  
    particularly unusual, until the appearance  
    of this rapidly metastasizing cancer this  
    past summer."
    
    Mulder took a sip of his iced tea and  
    looked at the upside down pages of the  
    folder.  "But that's definitely something."
    
    "Not necessarily.  I don't know enough  
    about equine melanomas to make a judgment  
    on that.  And as Beatrice mentioned, the  
    problems that occurred with both animals  
    were not uncommon for their age, just  
    rapidly developing."
    
    "And the foot stomper?"
    
    "Your friend the pony is thirty-seven years  
    old, current on all her shots, and has her  
    teeth cleaned every May.  She's in  
    remarkable shape for her age.  There are no  
    records of any illness or unsoundness after  
    1983, when she was treated for a puncture  
    wound to the foot which apparently healed  
    quite rapidly."
    
    "Healthy as a horse, then."
    
    That earned a smile.  "Healthy as a horse."  
    She closed the folders and dropped them  
    into her bag as their lunch arrived.
    
    They ate in silence for several minutes,  
    enjoying the moment of normalcy.  Over  
    Mulder's shoulder, she watched as the  
    twentysomething who had seated them struck  
    up a game of darts with a group of regulars  
    at the bar.  An elderly couple in tweed  
    waved to the darts players as they entered  
    and seated themselves at a nearby table.  
    The other booths near them were empty, she  
    noted, taking a small bite of her sandwich.  
    Scully was reluctant to break the silence  
    to debate Mulder, but she wanted to hear  
    his take on this.
    
    "Okay, spill it," she said, sitting her  
    water glass down on the varnished maple  
    tabletop.
    
    "Spill what?"  Mulder tilted his glass,  
    threatening to pour it on the untouched  
    half of her sandwich.
    
    The action was greeted with a stern look.
    
    He sat the glass back down on the table and  
    took a bite of his burger.  Grease dripped  
    down, landing on his fries, and Scully  
    crinkled her nose in disgust.  For a moment  
    he chewed thoughtfully, then continued.  
    "These animals were perfect test candidates  
    for the microchips.  From what those  
    records and Beatrice tell us, these chips  
    were implanted in the late seventies or  
    early eighties.  They belonged to someone  
    who worked for the State Department, in a  
    capacity unknown even to his wife.  
    Beatrice was often gone on weekends, or  
    even for weeks.  The opportunity was there  
    for the animals to be taken, implanted, and  
    returned with no one the wiser but Paul  
    Stevens, who was most likely in on the  
    project."
    
    "To what end?"
    
    "There are a couple possibilities, but I  
    think the most likely explanation is that  
    these animals were used as a test run.  
    Aren't new medical procedures tested on  
    animals first?"
    
    She nodded, surprised at how nearly  
    plausible this was sounding, if she ignored  
    the presumption that these chips were  
    implanted by a shadowy pseudogovernmental  
    conspiracy.
    
    He continued, "So these animals were used  
    as the test runs.  I haven't seen any  
    indication of chips in abductees prior to  
    the late eighties, so chronologically, it  
    would make sense."
    
    "You think they were simply making sure the  
    chips were undetectable and worked to their  
    purpose in independently functioning  
    organisms?"
    
    "It sounds so sexy when you say it like  
    that."  She glared at him, and he hastily  
    continued.  "It makes perfect sense,  
    though, that they would want to make sure  
    the chips functioned out of their direct  
    supervision and weren't noticeable by the  
    public at large.  We just don't know what  
    the chips are meant to do."
    
    "I'll admit that does make some sense.  But  
    we also haven't seen any chips in males  
    prior to this dog."
    
    Mulder shook his head.  "That one's got me,  
    too.  But I really wonder if he wasn't  
    simply part of a larger implantation group  
    of dogs.  He was pretty old and a good  
    decade had passed before Mrs. Stevens  
    noticed the chip in him.  I'm sure most of  
    the other dogs who'd been in her kennel at  
    the time of his disappearance had been sold  
    or died."
    
    "He only stood out as the one who got lost  
    on his way home?"
    
    "Possibly.  And in having chosen a bad  
    place to sleep later on."
    
    Scully sighed and abandoned her sandwich,  
    less than half-eaten.  "But none of that  
    answers the question of what the chips  
    actually do.  If the goal was simply to see  
    if a piece of metal in the neck would go  
    undetected, it seems an unusual coincidence  
    that they would develop medical problems  
    only after its removal."
    
    Mulder shrugged and popped the last bite of  
    burger into his mouth.  She saw him glance  
    at her own plate with concern, but he said,  
    "That I don't have the answer to.  It  
    sounds as if the chips keep the animals  
    inordinately healthy, but I'm clueless as  
    to what purpose that would serve."
    
    ****
    
    With a sigh, Scully closed the heavy text  
    and removed her glasses.  After making a  
    few additional notes, she tore the top  
    sheet off the legal pad in front of her and  
    placed it in the folder of Ophelia's  
    records.  As she was reaching over the  
    folder for another of the veterinary texts  
    she'd fished out of the bowels of the FBI,  
    the phone rang.
    
    "Scully."
    
    "I've been trying to call you for an hour.  
    What have you been doing?"
    
    "Hi, Mulder."  She was tired and wasn't up  
    to question and answer games with him.
    
    "Hi.  What are you doing?"
    
    She sighed and gave in.  "I've been on the  
    phone with various animal people about this  
    case."
    
    "Animal people?  This sounds promising.  
    Continue."
    
    "Mulder."  There was warning in her tone.  
    "Breeders, registries, what have you.  
    According to the American Kennel Club,  
    there were twenty-four offspring of  
    Champion Avalon's Noble Sir Galahad whelped  
    in Mrs. Stevens' kennel the summer he  
    disappeared, so I would assume all of them  
    could have been targeted as well.  Only two  
    of those dogs were subsequently registered  
    as Mrs. Stevens' animals.  The others were  
    all sold--some as far away as Colorado.  
    She also had eight other dogs registered in  
    her name in 1981, so presumably they were  
    in the same kennel as well."
    
    "Did you get names and addresses on all of  
    the puppies' buyers?"
    
    "They'll be faxing us what they have  
    tomorrow.  Most of the information will be  
    outdated, of course, and the odds are good  
    that all of those dogs are now deceased.  
    The average life span of a dog is something  
    like 14 years; these dogs were born almost  
    twenty years ago.  None of the other dogs  
    Mrs. Stevens owned at the time are still  
    alive."
    
    "But if one of them was still alive and  
    healthy, that in and of itself would be  
    important."
    
    Scully closed her eyes and pinched the  
    bridge of her nose, trying to avoid the  
    headache threatening.  "I also contacted  
    the Jockey Club and the American Horse  
    Shows Association about the horses."
    
    "The Jockey Club?  I didn't know you were  
    considering a career change."
    
    "They register Thoroughbred racehorses.  
    Ophelia was foaled in Virginia in 1975 and  
    registered to race under the name Southern  
    Charm.  She raced eight times with two  
    wins, was retired at the end of her three-  
    year-old year, and had one foal before she  
    was purchased by Mrs. Stevens in 1979.  She  
    had another foal in the spring of 1980,  
    also registered with the Jockey Club, but  
    never raced.  From what I can tell from the  
    Horse Show Association, both Ophelia and  
    her second foal were shown by Mrs. Stevens,  
    rather successfully, for many years.  Per  
    the veterinary records, she was bred twice  
    more, resulting in one foal in 1986 who was  
    not registered anywhere.  While the mare  
    was shipped all over the east coast, from  
    Florida from New York, it appears she was  
    very well managed, so I would assume it  
    would have been noticed if she went  
    missing.  It just doesn't fit with the  
    information on her."
    
    Mulder made a noncommital noise.  "What  
    about the pony?"
    
    "She was...." Scully trailed off as she  
    pulled out the third folder.  "Registered  
    with the Horse Show Association for three-  
    year-old pony breeding classes in 1964, as  
    Farnley Lustrous.  The woman I talked to on  
    the phone sounded rather excited about her;  
    apparently her brother was quite famous.  
    She had two owners before being purchased  
    by the Stevenses in 1972.  Both girls  
    showed her, with her last recorded show in  
    November 1982, ridden by Julia Stevens."
    
    "Okay."
    
    "What else do you want to know?  Their  
    complete race and show records are being  
    faxed over tomorrow, too."
    
    "So we can account for all the animals'  
    whereabouts nearly all their lives."
    
    "Either showing, at home with the  
    Stevenses, or being shipped between those  
    two points."
    
    Static crackled over the line and they were  
    both silent.  "Someone could have tampered  
    with them while being shipped.  It's a long  
    way from Virginia to Florida."
    
    She didn't even try to argue.  "What did  
    you find out about the family?"  She could  
    tell he was chomping at the bit to share  
    even more theories.
    
    "Her father, James Llwellyn was the chief  
    of staff at the British Embassy in  
    Washington from 1945 until 1985.  He then  
    retired, but remained in the country and  
    died in 1989.  The grandfather was in  
    Parliament, and Beatrice Llwellyn lived  
    with her grandparents during breaks while  
    she attended boarding school and later  
    Cambridge University.  She received her  
    degree in Literature, then came to the  
    United States.  At some point while she was  
    here, she met Paul Stevens.  He had just  
    started at the State Department, following  
    in his father's footsteps.  There isn't  
    much information on him or his job, just  
    that he was an employee of State.  They  
    married in 1955, and somehow she still has  
    dual citizenship with the US and UK."
    
    "How is that possible?  I don't know of  
    anyone over eighteen who's been allowed to  
    maintain that."
    
    "No clue, but she has it."  He sounded  
    puzzled, but continued eagerly.  "She  
    became an English teacher at Foxcroft  
    School in 1963.  They had three children.  
    Julia--who you mentioned--was the youngest,  
    born in 1968.  She has British citizenship  
    and lives just outside London.  Thomas, the  
    middle child, was born in 1964, and works  
    at Goldman Sachs in New York.  Most  
    intriguing is the eldest daughter,  
    Charlotte.  She was born in 1960 and now  
    works as a consultant to the government.  
    No Department listed, or mention of where--  
    just a consultant.  Very fishy."
    
    "You know very well that means nothing.  
    There are any number of vital positions she  
    could hold that would necessitate her being  
    nearly nonexistant."
    
    "We're meeting her for lunch tomorrow."
    
    "Why am I not surprised?"
    
    "Because you know me so well."  She  
    couldn't tell whether it was a joke or a  
    compliment.
    
    ****  
    Chapter 3  
    ****
    
    The restaurant wasn't overly crowded at  
    11:30.  It was still early for the  
    bureaucrat crowd to be out to lunch, though  
    a few suspiciously governmental patrons  
    looked as if they had more than a passing  
    acquaintance with the bar.  Mulder sipped  
    his diet Coke and watched as Scully chased  
    a lime wedge through her club soda with a  
    swizzle stick.
    
    There had been an uneasy silence between  
    them all morning.  He couldn't put his  
    finger on why, precisely.  Though lately  
    there had been more uneasy silences than in  
    times past.  It seemed as if they were  
    always oscillating between they-either-  
    hate-each-other-or-are-sleeping-together  
    banter or completely failing to  
    communicate.  More often than not, the  
    decision rested solely on the mood Scully  
    was in.  He wanted to ask what was wrong,  
    and went so far as to draw a breath with  
    which to ask when he noticed Scully's gaze  
    shift to the doorway.
    
    A woman in a tailored black suit was making  
    her way towards them, deftly weaving  
    through the empty tables.  The only  
    resemblances to her aging Hitchcock heroine  
    mother were in her 50's starlet figure and  
    balletic grace.  Her brunette hair and  
    medium complexion would have let her blend  
    in anywhere from Malibu to Moscow with a  
    simple wardrobe change.  She was studiously  
    unremarkable.
    
    "Agents Mulder and Scully?"  She paused at  
    the edge of their table, extending a neatly  
    manicured hand.
    
    Both agents rose to greet her.  "I'm Agent  
    Mulder.  This is my partner, Agent Scully.  
    Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on  
    such short notice."
    
    "Charlotte Stevens.  Good to meet both of  
    you."  She dropped down into the remaining  
    chair, waving a hand towards the waiter.  
    "What can I help you with?"
    
    "We spoke with your mother yesterday about  
    the health complications of several of her  
    animals," said Scully, pausing as the  
    waiter arrived.  "We'd like to ask you a  
    few questions about them as well."
    
    "Jameson's Gold on the rocks and a Nioise  
    salad, please."  Charlotte reached into a  
    handbag that Mulder guessed was made of  
    some sort of reptile, extracting a silver  
    lighter and a pack of Morleys.  "Do you  
    mind?"  She waved the pack at them.
    
    Mulder glanced quickly at Scully and waved  
    a hand at Charlotte.  Was secondhand smoke  
    really a concern now?
    
    With a practiced flick of the wrist, she  
    lit a cigarette and exhaled a thin plume of  
    smoke.  "I'm more than willing to answer  
    your questions about Mom's animals.  But up  
    front I will tell you that just because my  
    mother occasionally trained with Barney and  
    Paul when she was in Florida does not mean  
    that she's involved in anything untoward  
    with her animals.  I assumed those concerns  
    were in the past now."
    
    "I'm sorry?"  Scully's brow furrowed.
    
    "Agent Mulder mentioned the health problems  
    with Mother's animals.  I assumed if the  
    FBI was involved in such matters, it was  
    connected in some way with the wire fraud  
    charges that came down over the insurance  
    killings the other year."  She sat back in  
    her chair with the air of a judge who'd  
    just made his ruling.
    
    Scully adapted to this shift in information  
    while Mulder sat staring at the  
    presumptiveness of this woman.  "Was your  
    mother questioned about this during the  
    proceedings?"
    
    "Briefly, as her horse was stabled next to  
    one of those killed.  Mom's well-meaning,  
    but rather oblivious to some of the seedier  
    things that go on around her."
    
    "What sort of 'seedier things' are you  
    talking about, Ms. Stevens?"  Mulder tried  
    to remain neutral as he posed the question.
    
    His efforts were apparently in vain;  her  
    brown eyes hardened into a look similar to  
    those Scully gave him when she was in no  
    mood to joke.  "Certainly, Agent Mulder, if  
    you have even a passing familiarity with  
    the recent fraud charges, you have no need  
    to ask me that question."
    
    An icy silence fell over the table as the  
    waiter appeared with her whiskey and their  
    lunches.  Charlotte raised the golden  
    liquor to her lips as Scully redirected the  
    questioning in what Mulder would have  
    reluctantly admitted was a much more  
    productive manner.
    
    "Did you ever notice anything usual about  
    the animals on your family's property?"
    
    Glass and ice clinked as the whiskey was  
    replaced on the table.  Charlotte stalled  
    further by taking a long drag on her  
    cigarette.  "It depends what you mean by  
    unusual."
    
    "Unusual illnesses or behavior," Scully  
    clarified.
    
    "The animals were always healthy,"  
    Charlotte replied.  "We took good care of  
    them, but animals get sick or hurt  
    themselves, even under the best conditions.  
    I don't ever recall them being seriously  
    ill.  I think the last problem Mom had with  
    the horses before now was with Ophelia,  
    too.  She miscarried half term in her last  
    pregnancy.  With the dogs...." She trailed  
    off, taking another drag of her cigarette.  
    "One of them was hit by a car while chasing  
    a rabbit last fall."  A shrug silently  
    added "shit happens" to the end of her  
    statement.
    
    "As for behavior," she continued, "well,  
    you tell me what normal is and then maybe I  
    can give you a better idea.  We always  
    ended up with the ones with big  
    personalities."
    
    "Fair enough."  Mulder nodded.  "What about  
    you or your siblings?"
    
    The brown eyes hardened again.  "Nothing  
    remarkable.  We broke wrists and sprained  
    ankles.  No chronic problems.  As for  
    unusual behavior, well, who calls their  
    siblings normal?  Thom was always doing  
    something.  He was never idle--very driven.  
    Julie marched to her own drummer, and it  
    drove my parents mad.  And I was my  
    father's daughter."
    
    There was a beat of silence as they all  
    busied themselves with the food in front of  
    them.  Mulder watched Scully push a cherry  
    tomato through her garden salad while she  
    formulated a question.
    
    "Did you travel much as a family?"
    
    "Yes, we did, Agent Scully.  Every summer  
    we went to visit our grandparents for at  
    least a month.  Dad couldn't always stay,  
    but was always traveling for work.  Julie  
    and I always did interim abroad with school  
    once we were old enough, and sometimes Mom  
    went along.  And of course there were horse  
    and dog shows nearly every weekend."
    
    Scully nodded and looked ready to dismiss  
    her.  Mulder could tell Scully had arrived  
    at a perfectly plausible rationalization  
    for everything based on what Charlotte  
    Stevens had said.  He was less sure, but  
    couldn't put a finger on what else he  
    needed to ask.  "What do you think of the  
    cancer that Galahad had, and that Ophelia  
    currently has?" he blurted.
    
    "It's sad, but it happens," she stated.  
    "Frankly, I'm surprised it hasn't happened  
    to one of the animals before the last  
    couple of years.  It's been hard on Mom,  
    though, after not having to deal with many  
    drawn out, painful deaths.  Her animals are  
    like children to her.  When I was a  
    teenager, I was sure she cared more about  
    the damn dogs that she did about us.  For  
    her it's like watching her children die."
    
    Mulder nearly missed the look that flitted  
    across Scully's face--anyone else would  
    have.  He couldn't identify it, but there  
    was something sympathetic and sad in it  
    that was quickly overtaken by her  
    professional veneer.
    
    "I think that's all we needed to ask you  
    about, Miss Stevens.  Thank you very much  
    for taking the time to speak with us."
    
    Charlotte neatly tipped back the last of  
    the whiskey before rising.  "Glad to be of  
    help.  I'm not sure how you got my number,  
    Agent Mulder, but you know where to reach  
    me if you have any more questions."
    
    With the same casual grace as she entered,  
    Charlotte Stevens slipped away from the  
    table and out the door.  As she passed the  
    window, she'd already blended in with the  
    black and gray crowd of politicos moving  
    past.
    
    Turning back to face Scully, Mulder noted  
    her crossed arms and raised eyebrow.  
    Taking her off guard, he asked, "So what do  
    you make of Ms. Stevens, Agent Scully?"  It  
    was easy for him to mimic Charlotte  
    Stevens' crisp, faintly British diction.
    
    "I think her last statement was very  
    telling."
    
    "What does that mean?"
    
    "It means that sometimes death is just  
    death, and cancer is just cancer.  People  
    and animals become ill and die for reasons  
    we're not meant to understand everyday.  
    That does not make their deaths X-files."
    
    "And sometimes it's not 'just' anything.  
    Sometimes it merits further investigation,  
    because it's not just a random twist of  
    fate."
    
    Everything left half said crackled between  
    them.  They remained quiet for a moment,  
    searching for a way back to solid, less  
    sensitive ground.
    
    The waiter exchanged Charlotte's place  
    setting for their bill, and Mulder  
    automatically reached for it.  "So you  
    think we should just stop looking into  
    this?" he asked as he rummaged his pockets  
    for the FBI-issue charge card he knew was  
    lurking somewhere.
    
    "I think Charlotte Stevens' immediate  
    assumption about wire fraud is worth  
    looking into, because it seemed too pat a  
    denial.  She's either very worried about  
    something there, or it's a total red  
    herring.  But it is far more plausible that  
    these animals died for their owner's greed  
    than that they were used as guinea pigs to  
    test run microchips the purpose of which we  
    don't even understand."
    
    "Fine," he said, finally finding the credit  
    card in his left pocket.  "Why don't we  
    spend this afternoon looking into that  
    fraud possibility?  But I also want to call  
    Mrs. Stevens and arrange for you to autopsy  
    her horse after she's euthanized on Monday.
    
    "Necropsy.  And I can't."
    
    "What?"
    
    "Autopsies are performed on humans;  
    necropsies are performed on animals."  She  
    managed to look at him without meeting his  
    gaze.
    
    "That's not what I meant."
    
    Scully sighed softly and studied her half-  
    full plate.  "I can't necropsy the horse on  
    Monday."  After a beat, she continued, as  
    if unsure that she should share with him.  
    "I have to go into the hospital in the  
    mornings next week.  I'll be in the office  
    in the afternoons, but I don't think I can  
    go do the necropsy."
    
    It took him a moment to fully comprehend  
    what she'd told him.  Had she just  
    disclosed something about her health and  
    admitted weakness in the same breath?  He  
    wasn't sure how to respond to that.  "Oh.  
    Well, uh, I can call the vet hospital and  
    have them do it, right?  And they can send  
    you the results?"
    
    "If you call Mrs. Stevens and get consent,  
    I'll take care of calling the equine center  
    in Leesburg.  There are a few tests I want  
    run, and a few things I'd like to have them  
    look for."
    
    "Sounds like a deal."  He signed the  
    receipt with a flourish then stood,  
    extending his hand to her as she rose.  For  
    the two seconds it took her to stand, she  
    took it, then lead them to the door.
    
    ****
    
    Scully heaved a sigh and glanced down at  
    her watch as she hung up the phone.  Four  
    forty-five.  She slipped her glasses off  
    and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of  
    her nose as she did so.
    
    "Scully?  Are you all right?"
    
    Her eyes flew open and she spun in her  
    chair to face Mulder.  "I'm fine.  Just a  
    bit unsure that the veterinarian I spoke to  
    really understood what I want.  They'll be  
    faxing the complete report over Tuesday  
    afternoon."
    
    He made a non-committal noise as he  
    shuffled through several sheets of paper.  
    "What did you come up with on the fraud  
    possibility?"
    
    She could hear the challenge in his voice  
    and was slightly reluctant to respond.  
    "After comparing the facts involved in  
    that, I don't know how plausible it is for  
    Mrs. Stevens to be doing something similar  
    here.  It just doesn't fit with the MO from  
    that case.  There the horse was  
    electrocuted with the intention of making  
    it look like an accidental death.  
    Electrocution isn't a kind way to go, but  
    it is quick.  In this case, the mare has  
    been subjected to a slow wasting illness.  
    I also don't know of any way to  
    intentionally and reliably give any  
    organism cancer outside of a laboratory  
    environment.  It's just not feasible."
    
    "That fits with what I got from the  
    insurance company.  Both animals were  
    insured, but it seems like Mrs. Stevens  
    went out of her way to verify with multiple  
    vets that the illnesses were as claimed.  
    The insurance company never had any reason  
    to doubt her claim on the dog, and is in  
    the process of working on the details on  
    the horse.  The dog that she did collect on  
    wasn't insured for much, either.  Certainly  
    it's unlikely that anyone would go through  
    so much trouble for five thousand dollars."
    
    "Five thousand dollars?  For a dog?"  
    Scully was incredulous.
    
    "Yeah.  Apparently show animals are worth  
    big bucks.  Don't even ask how much that  
    horse is worth.  Just think more than you  
    make in a year for mutant-chasing."
    
    "I don't think I want to know.  But while  
    that's a lot of money for an animal, it  
    doesn't seem like an amount someone like  
    Beatrice Stevens would resort to fraud to  
    come up with.  The earrings she had on when  
    we met her were probably worth the payout  
    on the dog."
    
    Mulder nodded.  "Exactly."
    
    She sighed again, not wanting to concede  
    the argument, but realizing it was lost.  
    "Which eliminates fraud as a possibility  
    here."
    
    He nodded again, then looked away from her,  
    to his watch.  "Let's get out of here.  
    It's five, and there's nothing more we can  
    do with this today."
    
    Wordlessly, she swiveled back to her desk  
    and began gathering the notes she wanted to  
    take home and review.  They were still  
    missing some key piece, she thought, but  
    she couldn't put her finger on exactly what  
    it was.
    
    She paused at the door and turned back to  
    Mulder, who was still jotting notes on one  
    of the papers littering his desk.  "I  
    should be in around one on Monday.  If I  
    won't be, I'll call by noon."
    
    He looked across the room at her, freezing  
    her in place.  "Don't worry about it.  Why  
    don't you just take Monday off until you  
    know how you're going to be feeling?  You  
    won't have the paperwork you want until  
    Tuesday anyway."  She was surprised at the  
    tender note in his voice.
    
    "I'll be--" she stopped herself, willing to  
    admit by omission that she may not be just  
    fine Monday afternoon.  "That might be a  
    good idea.  I'll see you Tuesday then.  If  
    anything comes up before that, call me."
    
    "I'll stop by Monday evening with dinner  
    and fill you in on how things are going."  
    Even across the room, she could see the  
    furrow of concern on his brow.
    
    Her breath caught for half a second as she  
    processed that.  She was still torn on how  
    to treat Mulder's attempts at chivalry.  
    She appreciated that he wanted to help her,  
    but still resented that he felt the need.  
    "Thanks."  She left without another word,  
    not trusting herself to say anything  
    further.
    
    ****
    
    When his soft knocks on her door went  
    unanswered, Mulder felt justified in using  
    his key to enter the apartment.  He nearly  
    dropped the bags of take-out and files in  
    his rush to enter and make certain she was  
    all right, but froze just inside the door  
    when he spotted her sleeping form on the  
    couch.
    
    He so rarely saw her this way--no make up,  
    unstyled hair, wearing faded gray  
    sweatpants and a navy tee shirt from which  
    the white "FBI" logo was starting to wear  
    away.  Her feet were flat on the couch, and  
    a book rested open against her thighs.
    
    Reassured, he stepped into her kitchen,  
    depositing dinner on the counter and the  
    files on the table.  She hadn't moved when  
    he returned to the living room.  Trying to  
    be as quiet as possible, he crouched beside  
    her and slid the book from her loose grasp.  
    For a moment, he stared at the sepia-toned  
    cover of Isak Dineson's "Out of Africa"  
    before sliding in the bookmark on the  
    coffee table and picking up the remote.  
    With a flick, the muted CNN broadcast faded  
    to black.
    
    Scully finally stirred when he pulled the  
    afghan off the back of the couch to cover  
    her.  "Mulder?"  She looked up at him with  
    bleary, tired eyes.  "What time is it?"
    
    "Just past six.  I brought dinner and some  
    paperwork from today, but I can just leave  
    it and let you sleep...."
    
    "Where did you get dinner?"
    
    "Cosi.  I brought you one of the turkey  
    sandwiches you like--the one with that  
    godawful mustard.  And vegetable soup," he  
    added as a healthy afterthought.
    
    She shook her head and sat up slowly.  "No,  
    no.  For that I can wake up, and you can  
    stay.  But," she frowned and caught his  
    eye, "that mustard is not godawful.  It's  
    delicious."
    
    "Whatever you say, Scully."  He turned back  
    towards the kitchen, until he heard her  
    shift, moving off the couch.  "No, no.  
    Just sit.  I'll bring dinner in here."
    
    He turned to see her appraising him with  
    narrowed eyes, but then her face suddenly  
    softened, and she nodded in assent.  He  
    heard the television flick back, CNN's  
    headlines shouting across the apartment to  
    assail him.
    
    When he returned balancing trays with  
    plates, bowls, and glasses, he found Scully  
    had settled back onto the couch.  The  
    volume on the news was lower, and the book  
    was back in her lap.
    
    "Good read?" he asked as he sat the trays  
    carefully on her coffee table.  The soup  
    sloshed, but only trickled down the side of  
    his bowl.
    
    She shrugged before answering.  "I haven't  
    read much of it yet.  I started while I was  
    waiting this morning.  It's somewhere I've  
    always wanted to go," she finished softly,  
    averting her eyes and reaching for the  
    water glass on the tray in front of her.
    
    Mulder nearly choked on his spoonful of  
    soup at her revelation and tried to fit  
    this new information in with what he knew  
    of Scully.  "You want to go to Africa?"
    
    She blushed and put down her glass.  "Yes."  
    She said nothing else, and simply picked up  
    the soup bowl.
    
    They ate in silence for a moment, spoons  
    clinking softly against porcelain.  
    Finally, he sat the bowl down and broke the  
    silence.  "Is that something you've been  
    thinking about lately?"
    
    At this she finally met his gaze.  There,  
    she hesitated before asking, "About  
    visiting Africa?  Or about things I've  
    always wanted to do?"
    
    "Yes."
    
    She seemed to shrink in front of him,  
    turning away as she reached one arm out to  
    pick up her sandwich.  For a moment she  
    simply nibbled on the corner of the turkey  
    and brie.  Eventually, her head bobbed in a  
    slow nod as she replaced the barely-eaten  
    sandwich on the plate.  "I have been.  
    Today, especially."
    
    He wasn't sure how he should respond.  Part  
    of him badly wanted to crack a joke and  
    lighten the tension that had filled the  
    room.  But the psychologist in him kicked  
    that part square in the ass, and he  
    considered how rarely they really talked.  
    She probably needed that now more than  
    ever, he realized.  "What else have you  
    always wanted to do?"
    
    The thin, pressed line of her lips broke  
    into a soft smile, and he knew he'd spoken  
    the right words.  "Well, visiting Africa,  
    obviously--I'd like to go out on tour and  
    see the wildlife there."
    
    She picked up the sandwich again and took a  
    real bite this time, chewing as she  
    thought.  He smiled, picked up his own club  
    sandwich, and nodded in encouragement.
    
    "I'd like to have a dog again.  I really  
    did like Queequeg, and those dogs at Mrs.  
    Stevens' last week were adorable.  We moved  
    around a lot when I was a young, and we  
    didn't have much room, so Mom and Dad never  
    let us have a dog, no matter how much Bill  
    and I used to beg for one."
    
    She took another bite, and Mulder did the  
    same, waiting and enjoying her small  
    revelations.  "I'd like to go to Europe,  
    too.  I've never been out of North America.  
    There's so much I'd like to see there--  
    museums and churches and historical sites."
    
    "Hey, if you ever want a personally guided  
    tour of England, just name the date."
    
    The small smile on her face grew into a  
    wide grin.  "I'm sure you could tell me  
    where every crop circle in the country has  
    ever occurred."
    
    "Well, yes," he admitted sheepishly.  "But  
    I also know all about the ghosts at the  
    Tower of London.  And I know my way around  
    the British Museum--some of the artifacts  
    are cursed, you know."
    
    "I'll bear that in mind if I ever go."
    
    Silence fell again for several moments as  
    they made quick work of their sandwiches.
    
    "So is that all, Scully?"
    
    "Well, I always wanted to try skiing...."
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 4  
    ****
    
    Scully slowly made her way down the basement corridor  
    to the office.  She hadn't been sure she would make it  
    in, not after the way she'd felt yesterday.  The first  
    day of radiation had left her exhausted and dizzy.  If  
    Mulder hadn't shown up at her apartment, she probably  
    would have slept on through until the next morning.  
    But, she reflected, she enjoyed their dinner  
    conversation, even if it had a slightly morbid tinge  
    to it.  It had also reassured her that he would be  
    able to treat her with a solicitous respect as she  
    worked through her illness.
    
    That thought didn't quite prepare her for finding  
    Mulder looking rather green and staring down at an  
    open folder on his desk.  She could see the relief  
    wash over him as he watched her enter the room.
    
    "What have you got there, Mulder?"
    
    "The, ah, courier arrived ten minutes ago with the  
    report for you."  He slammed the folder shut and held  
    it out to her before she was halfway across the room.
    
    She took it, wondering why he looked so put out by  
    this information.  He'd certainly looked over gruesome  
    human autopsy reports without looking so affected.  
    But as she read the description of the mare's tumor  
    pressing through the ocular space and into the brain,  
    she understood his queasy face.  She had to take a  
    deep breath before she could continue reading.
    
    Several moments passed in silence as she sat and read  
    the preliminary findings on the mare.  Most of the  
    tests she had requested were noted in the file, with a  
    Post It thoughtfully scribbled and stuck in to let her  
    know the results would be forwarded to her as they  
    were completed.
    
    When she had skimmed the report twice, she looked up  
    to find Mulder very busy doing nothing at his desk.  
    With little effort, she could see him as a child,  
    asking if they were there yet.
    
    "There's nothing here that catches my eye as  
    particularly unusual, Mulder."  He started at the  
    sound of her voice and turned to give her his full  
    attention.  "The melanomas on her body and tumor in  
    her eye were very aggressive and rapidly  
    metastasizing, but there's nothing to indicate there  
    was anything unnatural about them beyond that.  The  
    only thing to show up on the preliminary blood test  
    was a standard pain killer prescribed by the  
    veterinarian, and of course the drugs used in the  
    euthanization."
    
    He was silent a long moment as she faced him over the  
    opened folder.  "So you think this is nothing?"
    
    "I don't think it's nothing.  But I don't necessarily  
    think it's something, either."  She sighed.  "But at  
    this point, it seems more like a remarkable series of  
    coincidences than anything else."
    
    "But--"
    
    She cut him off, continuing her train of thought.  
    "We've got no proof that anything was actually done to  
    these animals.  We can account for their whereabouts--  
    excepting the dog Galahad over several weeks--for  
    their entire lives.  It would have been difficult at  
    best to have abducted, implanted, and returned them  
    with no one the wiser.  That they all have chips that  
    may or may not be like the ones we've seen previously.  
    Have you found anything else about that?"
    
    A shake of the head combined with a shrug granted her  
    the point.  "Nothing much.  It looks similar,  
    structurally, to the one removed from your neck, but  
    slightly larger.  There aren't any markings to  
    indicate a manufacturer."
    
    "I didn't expect there would be."  She closed the  
    folder and sat it on top of the mounting heap from  
    this case.
    
    "So you think we should stop pursuing this?"  She  
    could hear the panic of a dog being asked to give up  
    its favorite bone in his voice.
    
    "Keep the file open, at least until I get all the test  
    results back.  Those will be another week coming, at  
    least.  But we're lacking any evidence to link your  
    leaps of logic together."
    
    "Yeah."  He ran a hand through his hair, further  
    tousling it.  "But if I could prove those links, I  
    would have put those bastards away a long time ago."  
    His gaze met hers and held until she glanced away,  
    back to the towering paperwork.
    
    ****
    
    Mulder looked up from his paperwork as Scully shuffled  
    into the office.  A glance at his watch told him she  
    was twenty minutes later than she'd been yesterday.  
    From the way she moved across the office, he guessed  
    it was related to how she felt rather than how  
    congested lunch hour traffic was.  But he knew better  
    than to comment.
    
    It was a full minute after she sat down before he  
    heard her pull open the bag he'd left for her.  Her  
    chair squeaked as she spun to look at him.
    
    "Turkey club, extra tomatoes."
    
    "Oh."  She swiveled back to face the bag, pulling out  
    the foil-wrapped sandwich.  "Thanks."  Her voice was  
    barely audible over the crinkling of foil.
    
    Several long moments passed with only the shuffling of  
    papers and crunching of sandwich.  A thousand  
    questions flickered through Mulder's mind, but he sat  
    silent.
    
    Finally, it was Scully's voice that broke the silence.  
    "When did this package arrive?"
    
    "It was delivered while I was out getting lunch--  
    sometime between eleven thirty and noon."
    
    "Mm."  There was a rip as she opened the packaging,  
    half-eaten sandwich forgotten.
    
    Mulder abandoned any pretense of working as he watched  
    her slowly flick through the small file.  As he  
    waited, he tried to determine whether the paleness of  
    her face was due to the terrible fluorescent lighting  
    or to her treatments.  He didn't think she'd looked  
    quite so pale a week ago.
    
    He was broken out of this train of thought when she  
    rose and reached for a thick reference tome on the  
    shelf above the desk.  "What'd you find?"
    
    "I'm not sure yet."  She sat and flicked through the  
    text, pausing and rereading the information in the  
    file.  "Hmm."
    
    "Scully."
    
    She looked up at him, seemingly started by his  
    interruption.  "Oh.  Nitrofurazone."  She turned back  
    to the book.
    
    What the hell was she talking about?  He tried to put  
    the pieces together, wondering where this one fit.  
    "The lab found nitrofurazone in the tests you  
    ordered?"
    
    She nodded and turned back to him.  "Yes.  It's not  
    that finding it is so terribly unusual--it's commonly  
    used as an antibacterial ointment in large animals,"  
    she explained.  "But the levels that they found in  
    this mare don't correspond to what one would  
    reasonably expect to find in her system from topical  
    use.  Recent studies have shown that while it is an  
    effective ointment for wounds, it is also a  
    carcinogen.  Many veterinary hospitals are moving away  
    from using it when possible and towards compounds with  
    fewer potential side-effects."
    
    "But it was used on the mare in larger than average  
    quantities?"
    
    Scully hesitated and glanced back to the lab results.  
    "Not excessively so, but definitely in larger  
    quantities than are usual."  She frowned at the file.
    
    "Was it present in quantities sufficient to cause the  
    tumors found in her?"
    
    "I don't know.  It's not a controlled substance, so  
    anyone would have access to it.  I'd really like to  
    speak with Mrs. Stevens and her regular vet about it.  
    There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation."
    
    "Of course there could be," he muttered, reaching for  
    the main case folder to find the number for Beatrice  
    Stevens.
    
    "What was that, Mulder?"  One eyebrow raised on her  
    pale face, but he wasn't sure if it was safe to play  
    today.
    
    "I'll just get those numbers for you."
    
    "Sure."  She turned back to stare at her sandwich as  
    he flicked open the folder and reached for the phone.
    
    Before his hand touched the receiver, it rang, causing  
    both of them to jump slightly.
    
    "Mulder," he barked into the receiver.  His eyes grew  
    wide and weary as he listened.  "No.  No, we have the  
    copies you sent us right here."
    
    Scully turned to stare at him, an inquisitive look on  
    her face.  He shook his head and gestured for the  
    paperwork she'd just received.
    
    "Yeah, we've got it here, and we really appreciate  
    it...." He paused, listening to the panicked voice on  
    the other end of the line before continuing, "No, I  
    don't know why it would have been removed, and I'm not  
    happy about it.  But I appreciate you letting us  
    know."
    
    The receiver fell back into the cradle with a dull  
    thud.  "Fuck.  That was the Virginia Tech labs where  
    your tests were being run.  They wanted to make sure  
    we still had the paperwork they sent us, because the  
    originals are gone," he answered her unasked question.
    
    "Gone."
    
    "Everything--all the samples, all the original  
    paperwork.  There this morning, gone after lunch."
    
    "What about the samples that were still being tested?  
    There were a couple things I don't have back yet."
    
    "All gone.  No signs of forced entry, and nothing else  
    is missing.  It's just like this never existed."  He  
    shook his head in disgust.  "Not that I can say I'm  
    surprised."
    
    She sighed and looked down at the duplicate files now  
    sitting on his desk.  "We have almost everything,  
    though.  Why would someone steal the originals after  
    copies have been sent to us?"
    
    "To destroy the ability to verify what we have."
    
    They were both quiet, staring and the three inches of  
    paper piled between them.
    
    "You said you wanted to talk to Beatrice Stevens  
    again.  I think that would be an excellent idea.  Are  
    you up for a drive out there tomorrow afternoon?"
    
    There was a half-beat before she nodded where he held  
    his breath.  Slowly, her head dipped in assent.  "It's  
    not far, there's no reason why we can't."
    
    "If I pick you up on the way, we can get out of here  
    earlier.  What time will you be done with treatment?"
    
    The pause before she answered this time was even  
    longer.  He couldn't be sure if she was calculating,  
    or trying to avoid answering.
    
    "It would be fastest if you could pick me up right  
    from the hospital.  There's no reason I can't get  
    ready there.  Noon?"
    
    He nodded, and they turned back to their paperwork.
    
    ****
    
    She wasn't quite sure why she'd agreed to leave  
    straight from treatment.  It had seemed like a good  
    decision at the time, but in retrospect, she'd really  
    needed that trip back to her apartment to change and  
    collect herself before facing work.  Scully felt  
    entirely too vulnerable as Mulder followed the  
    twisting road towards Avalon.   She tried to convince  
    herself that it was Mulder's driving that left her  
    feeling mildly nauseous.  Looking out the window at  
    the bright new leaves, she tried to push the queasy  
    feelings away and appreciate the sunny spring weather.  
    At least she wasn't in the basement.
    
    Watching out the passenger window as they rolled down  
    the drive, she noticed the horse and rider before  
    Mulder did.  "Out in the field," she said with a  
    gesture towards the window.
    
    The car stopped as they both watched the bright bay  
    horse and elegant rider fly over a fence erected in  
    the field a hundred yards away.  The rider's black  
    velvet cap cast a shadow over her face and hid her  
    hair, but from the neat green sweater and tailored  
    breeches and boots, Scully knew it had to be Beatrice  
    Stevens.  The rider nodded slightly in their direction  
    before turning the horse to the right and cantering  
    over a low, painted wall.
    
    Mulder edged the car forward down the drive, coming to  
    a stop by the gate to the field.  Both sat for a  
    moment, unmoving, until the horse and rider approached  
    the gate and slowed.  Only then did Scully unbuckle  
    her seatbelt and slide from the car.
    
    "Good afternoon, Beatrice."
    
    "Agents Scully and Mulder, welcome back."  She patted  
    the sweating horse's neck with a gloved hand as she  
    nodded in welcome to them.  "I'm sorry, I must have  
    lost track of time while working with Prospero."
    
    "He's beautiful."  Scully reached over the fence to  
    pat Prospero's velvety nose, watching as his nostrils  
    flared with each hard breath.
    
    "His first show is this weekend, so we've been working  
    hard to get ready.  Eight months off the race track,  
    can you believe?"  There was pride in Beatrice's voice  
    as she patted the horse again heartily, walking him  
    away from the fence in a large, lazy circle.  "If you  
    don't mind, I can talk while we cool out for a few  
    moments."
    
    Once the horse moved away, Mulder had moved up to  
    stand at her side at the fence.  "No problem at all.  
    It looks like he had quite a workout."
    
    "He needs all the schooling he can get.  Too smart,  
    this one.  Prospero gets into trouble when he's not in  
    work."  She turned him to walk back towards the  
    agents.  "What can I help you with today?  You  
    mentioned that Agent Scully was interested in  
    Ophelia's care?"
    
    "Yes," Scully replied.  "I had several tests run on  
    her, and one of them turned up nitrofurazone in her  
    system.  Did you ever use it on her?"
    
    "Oh, yes."  Her matter of fact tone startled Scully,  
    instantly vanquishing any suspicions that the  
    substance was of more than mundane origins.  Feeling  
    Mulder deflate slightly beside her, could tell she was  
    not the only one.  Beatrice continued, "Last month she  
    had a swollen fetlock, for no reason I could find.  I  
    sweated it with furazone and DMSO.  Cleared right up."
    
    "You didn't call the vet?"
    
    "I've been at this a long time, Agent Scully, and have  
    seen a lot of injuries.  Short of matters requiring  
    stitches or tranquilizers, I can take care of most  
    things myself."  Her tone was sterner than any than  
    she'd previously used.
    
    For a few minutes, Scully and Mulder simply watched as  
    the horse's long strides carried him around in an easy  
    circle.  Scully began to wonder what they'd driven  
    back for, when Beatrice's voice interrupted, once  
    again gentle.
    
    "Would you mind getting the gate for me, Agent  
    Mulder?"
    
    "Certainly."  He stepped behind Scully, pulling the  
    green pipe gate wide open.
    
    Beatrice and Prospero passed through, heading across  
    the drive towards the stable.  Her voice rung back to  
    them, echoing off the brick of the house and drowning  
    out the hooves in soft gravel.  "You know, he'll be  
    the last horse I make.  He's shaping up to be a fancy  
    one.  I think he'll outlast me.
    
    Mulder and Scully followed behind her and slightly off  
    to one side.  Scully could see one of the horse's ears  
    cocked back, listening to their footsteps behind him.  
    He might be able to hear her voice, but Beatrice could  
    not.  "Mulder, I think we're wasting our time here.  
    We really didn't have to come out all this way--"
    
    "No," he whispered back, "we did.  I want to see if  
    there's anything different about her particular  
    furazone.  And I want to get a few more records from  
    her."
    
    She could only sigh in response as he raised his voice  
    to catch Beatrice's attention, as she was now  
    chattering on about the possibility of being ready to  
    show at Upperville.
    
    "Beatrice!"
    
    She quieted and slowed the horse's step without  
    appearing to do anything.
    
    When Mulder caught up to the horse's shoulder, he  
    continued.  "I was wondering, though, if we could  
    possibly get a bit of the ointment you used?  Just to  
    check in case it was a bad batch or something."
    
    "It was an older container, from last year.  It's  
    nearly gone now.  You can have the rest of it, if you  
    really want it."  They reached the front of the stable  
    and she swung off the horse with a spryness that  
    belied her years.  "Is that all you came for?"
    
    "I was also hoping you might have some records from  
    the shipping company you used when transporting your  
    animals to events."
    
    "Oh."  She furrowed her brow under the hunt cap's brim  
    as she led the horse into the barn, Mulder and Scully  
    following.  "I do most of the hauling myself, unless  
    it's to Florida or indoors.  I do keep records of  
    that, though, for the insurance."
    
    "Those would be just what I want."
    
    Securing the horse, Beatrice stepped into an open  
    doorway, reemerging with a bucket of brushes and a  
    small blue jar.  "Your furazone, Agent Scully.  Agent  
    Mulder, if you give me a few moments, the records are  
    all up in my office, and you're welcome to them.  Are  
    you any closer to finding the answer to what happened  
    to Galahad and Ophelia?"
    
    Scully looked down at the dusty, slightly battered jar  
    before answering.  "We're not sure.  But we're still  
    looking."  She saw Mulder give her a look she couldn't  
    interpret in the stable's dim light, but he remained  
    quiet.
    
    "Good to hear."  Beatrice nodded with conviction as  
    she smoothed a brush along the horse's back.
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 5  
    ****
    
    Beatrice shuffled through several files, seeming to  
    pull sheets out at random.  "Did you just want the  
    shipping paperwork on Ophelia, or on all the horses?"
    
    "If you have them for Tinkerbelle, that would be  
    wonderful as well."  Mulder watched as she continued  
    to pull on papers, gathering a large sheaf in her left  
    hand.
    
    Scully stood to the side, near the table of  
    photographs that had caught her eye on their first  
    visit.  Mulder stepped beside her, trying to see what  
    caught her eye.  Was there a specific picture?  Or  
    were these like the book she'd been reading the other  
    night--reminders of things she'd like but never have?
    
    Apparently at least one of them had drawn her  
    attention. As Beatrice approached them with the  
    paperwork, Scully gestured to a beveled silver frame  
    at the far end of the table.  "Was that Ophelia?"
    
    Beatrice squinted slightly at the photo.  "Yes, it  
    was.  That's Charlotte riding her in Florida."
    
    "She was a gorgeous horse.  I'm sure she will be  
    missed."
    
    "Very much.  But we had a lovely time together, and  
    all--Agent Scully, are you quite all right?"  Panic  
    cut through her previously casual tone.
    
    Mulder looked quickly up from the photograph to see a  
    thin trail of blood streaking down from Scully's right  
    nostril.  Discreetly, he tapped his own.  She saw his  
    gesture immediately, dropping her face and covering  
    her nose with a hand.
    
    "Do you have a washroom she could use?"
    
    "Oh, yes, yes of course.  Right down the hallway.  The  
    doorway to the left of the staircase."
    
    Mulder's fingers grazed the small of Scully's back as  
    she spun and marched out of the room.
    
    "Is she all right?  Agent Mulder?"  Beatrice's gentle  
    voice broke into the worry scurrying through his  
    brain.
    
    "She'll be fine."  He hoped--he prayed to a God he  
    barely believed in.  If he had any control in the  
    matter, she would indeed be fine at some point in the  
    future.  If he believed enough, it wasn't a lie.  She  
    would be fine again, eventually.  Somehow.
    
    Silence fell in the room as Beatrice handed the  
    shipping papers over to him.  He barely registered the  
    paperwork charting movements between Virginia and  
    Florida as they waited without a word until Scully  
    returned, looking as if nothing had happened.
    
    ****
    
    She'd collapsed, exhausted, onto her bed upon  
    returning home.  It had taken all her concentration to  
    remove her shoes and jacket before she'd been dead to  
    the world.  The piercing ring of her phone broke into  
    her dreamless slumber, forcing her into a groggy  
    stupor.
    
    "Sc-Scully."  She cast about, trying to locate her  
    alarm clock's luminous digits.  11:17.  She'd been  
    asleep five hours and felt as if she'd not gotten a  
    wink of sleep.
    
    "I'm sorry."  Even if she hadn't recognized the voice  
    instantly, she would have known who it was.  "I didn't  
    think about waking you up.  You need to sleep..."
    
    "No, I'm already awake.  What's so important?"
    
    "You're sure it's okay?  You're feeling all right?"
    
    "Yes, I'm fine now.  I was just asleep."
    
    "If you're sure..."
    
    "Oh, for God's sake, Mulder!"  She was feeling every  
    bit of her exhaustion now.  "Just tell me why you  
    called."
    
    He didn't say anything for a moment, and she was  
    afraid he was going to make further inquiries into her  
    health.  "The smoking man was waiting for me when I  
    got back tonight," he finally blurted.
    
    "Oh."  She wasn't quite sure what to make of that.  
    "What did he want?"
    
    "He came to discourage me from continuing to pursue  
    this case.  His exact words were that 'There is  
    absolutely nothing amiss with the animals owned by the  
    Stevens family, save an owner who has made one too  
    many flights across the Atlantic.'"
    
    "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"
    
    "My guess is that like everything else he's  
    discouraged us from investigating, the more we look,  
    the less we'll find."
    
    "That doesn't make any sense.  Why not just make it  
    disappear without telling you?  Then it really would  
    just seem like the case didn't merit further  
    investigation."
    
    She could hear him draw a deep breath through the  
    crackling phone line, and knew there was more to the  
    confrontation than he was telling her.  "What else did  
    he say?"
    
    "He offered...he said that if we dropped the  
    investigation into the chips in these animals, he  
    would provide us with access to another chip for you."
    
    It was her turn to draw a deep breath, before  
    responding firmly, "And what would I need another one  
    of those for?"
    
    "He said that without it, your cancer will progress  
    just as it did in the animals we're investigating."
    
    Mentally she ticked off several implications of that  
    statement for later discussion.  "And why should I  
    believe him?  When has he ever told us the truth  
    before?"
    
    His heavy sigh hung between them for a long time.  
    "But it's a chance to save you, Scully.  What's the  
    value of a few animals against your life?  I can't let  
    that opportunity slide by."
    
    "You don't have to.  It's not your decision to make."
    
    "But Scully--"
    
    "No.  It's ultimately my life and my decision.  I need  
    some time to weigh that trade for myself, and I can't  
    do that right now.  Give me some time to think about  
    it."
    
    "He said he would be in touch tomorrow."
    
    "Then we'll talk about it when I get into the office  
    tomorrow afternoon."
    
     
    
    When she walked into the office the following  
    afternoon, she could tell Mulder had been anxiously  
    waiting for her.  She could feel his eyes on her as  
    she removed her coat and sat at her desk, expecting an  
    answer from her.
    
    She tried her best to ignore him for a few moments,  
    busying herself with the day's mail and checking her  
    email messages.  When she ran out of ways to credibly  
    avoid discussion of the matter, she slowly swiveled  
    her desk chair to face him.
    
    Before she could begin to speak, he began, "Scully, I  
    really think you should consider this offer.  I know  
    that the smoking man isn't the most reliable of  
    sources, but he's never done anything to  
    intentionally--"
    
    "Just stop, Mulder.  Stop."   She heaved a sigh and  
    held up a hand to ward off his nervous rambling.  "I  
    need you just to listen to me, okay?"
    
    He seemed startled, and hastily closed the jaw that  
    had opened to continue.   Subtly, he bobbed his head  
    in assent, relaxing back into his seat and ceding the  
    floor to her.
    
    "You have nothing but the best of intentions in all  
    this, and I know that.  I understand that you only  
    want to make this compromise out of a desire to see me  
    healthy.  I appreciate that, I really do."  She was  
    wary, trying to tread carefully and make her point  
    while remaining respectful of the fact that he felt at  
    least partially responsible for the situation.
    
    "But I also know that even if this would work--and  
    there's no guarantee that it would--I can't live my  
    life in debt to that man.  And if I accepted this  
    trade, that's what would happen."
    
    Mulder was quiet for a moment, until it was clear that  
    she had finished.  "But you're not the one making the  
    trade.  He didn't offer it to you.  He offered to give  
    me the chip in exchange for stopping the  
    investigation.  You wouldn't be indebted to him at  
    all."
    
    "It's our investigation and my body that the chip  
    would be effecting.  It most certainly would be my  
    debt, whatever you want to believe about it.  It's not  
    a trade, it's making a deal with the devil.  I'm not  
    going to do it, and I won't let you do it, either."
    
    "What if I want to?"
    
    "I have no doubt that you want to."  Her eyes sparked  
    with her inner turmoil.  "God knows that I would love  
    to know that something so simple could cure me.  But  
    nothing is that simple, and the consequences far  
    outweigh the potential benefits.  I can't throw  
    professional ethics out the window and trade a case  
    for my own personal welfare.  And we don't even know  
    that this chip would really help me!"
    
    "All the evidence in this case seems to suggest that  
    it would."
    
    "Three examples in animals, with incomplete evidence,  
    I can't take as proof, or even as good faith in what  
    the smoking man told you."
    
    "You'd rather die?"
    
    It was the first time either of them had ever voiced  
    the understood potentiality.  The air in the office  
    seemed to chill a few degrees and silence hung  
    ominously.
    
    "I'd rather respect myself for the time I have left  
    than live a compromised life."  She met his eyes,  
    refusing to be the first to look away.
    
    Mulder blinked first, looking down to stare at his  
    hands, which had begun to clench against the edge of  
    his desk.  "Is it that poor of a trade to you?"  There  
    was a sadness in his voice that was tempered with a  
    barely restrained frustration.
    
    "I can't believe you even have to ask me that."  She  
    met his tone with steel, refusing to yield on this.
    
    He met her eyes again, and she could see that he  
    didn't have to ask.  He was just weighing the  
    consequences of running off and making the trade  
    himself, letting her hate him and live.
    
    "Look, Mulder, it's not about the case.  This case is  
    too tenuous to concern me.  Did you fail to notice the  
    two men on the horses in the photo behind Beatrice and  
    Jackie Kennedy the first time we visited?"
    
    He furrowed his brows and looked perplexed, something  
    she was not used to seeing.  She clarified,  "The  
    smoking man was one of the men.  Much younger, but it  
    was him.  She had to know him."
    
    "You're sure?"
    
    "I wasn't certain it was, until I got a look at it  
    again yesterday.  I'm sure it was him; I figured you  
    would notice, but apparently I shouldn't take things  
    for granted with you."
    
    "What's that supposed to mean?" he growled.
    
    "You're the one who wants to make a deal with him.   I  
    don't want to live the rest of my life with the  
    knowledge that either one of us is indebted to that  
    man for my continued well being.  Because it won't  
    stop with this case if that trade is made."
    
    He nodded and glanced around the office.  She could  
    see tears sparkling in the edges of his eyes, but they  
    cleared as he spoke again, softly.  "I just...I want  
    to see you healthy, Scully.  I don't want to leave a  
    possibility by the wayside just because it seems a  
    little dangerous."
    
    "A little dangerous?" she exploded.  "Having radiation  
    directed at my brain every morning is dangerous.  
    Making a deal with that man, while it might seem like  
    the right choice now, would be fatal in the long run."
    
    "Better that you chose your own end?  Sailors to the  
    sea, horses to the hounds?"  His voice was soft.  Had  
    he replied harshly, she would have stormed out.  This  
    compassion she wasn't quite sure how to take.
    
    She simply nodded.  "Yes."
    
    "I'd rather you didn't have to make a choice at all.  
    That it was decades down the road before you had to  
    give thought to any of this."
    
    "So do I, but while I can't control the circumstances,  
    at least I can have some choice in the outcome."
    
    "I don't like the choice, but I'll respect it."
    
    "Thank you."
    
    Silence fell over the office again, but it had a much  
    different feel.  They turned back to their respective  
    desks and burrowed into their work.  None of the  
    tension remained that had surrounded her arrival.  
    Rather, the silence held a palpable comfort and  
    agreement between them, uneasy and unpleasant though  
    it was.
    
    ****
    
    Beatrice Stevens carried the big green bucket in one  
    hand, scooping feed out of it with the other.  The  
    sweet smelling grain drew the horses to the fronts of  
    their stalls.  At one end of the aisleway, she heard  
    Belle bang a hoof against the oak door, impatient for  
    her dinner.
    
    Prospero was much more of a gentleman about it,  
    standing patiently in front of the feed bin as she  
    poured grain through the opening in the front of his  
    stall.  His soft nose brushed her hand as he plunged  
    his head into the feed, rattling grain and a salt  
    block around in the plastic tub.
    
    The only sounds as she moved down the aisleway were  
    the hearty tread of her sturdy barn boots and the  
    shuffling of the horses in their stalls.  When she  
    heard the scrape of footsteps on the concrete aisle  
    while pouring feed into the next stall, she froze,  
    then sniffed the air.
    
    "How many times over the years have I told you not to  
    smoke in the barn?"
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 6  
    ****
    
    "How many times over the years have I told  
    you not to smoke in the barn?"
    
    He took a long drag on the cigarette before  
    dropping it to the concrete and putting it  
    out with a twist of his black, shiny shoe.  
    "Too many times, Bea.  Too many times."
    
    "Then you ought to know better by now.  
    I'll thank you to keep your filthy habit  
    out of here." She dumped the last of the  
    feed into Belle's stall before walking up  
    the aisle to face him.
    
    "So to what do I owe the pleasure of your  
    company?  It's been a long time."
    
    "Two years, I believe."  He shoved his  
    hands in the pockets of his grey trench  
    coat, as if unsure what to do without a  
    cigarette to occupy himself.
    
    "It's been a good two years."  Her voice  
    was brittle.
    
    "Recent events would convince me  
    otherwise."
    
    "Oh?"  She turned away, dropping the feed  
    bucket back into the tack room, in its  
    place beside the grain bin.
    
    "I believe you've taken concerns about some  
    of your menagerie to the FBI."
    
    "And when have you ever concerned yourself  
    with my animals, except when they've served  
    your political interests?"
    
    "You assume it doesn't serve them now?"
    
    "I shouldn't be surprised to hear it.  But  
    I still wonder what business it is of  
    yours."
    
    He slowly withdrew what looked like a  
    penlight from his pocket.  "I would ask you  
    what business you think it is of the  
    FBI's."
    
    "Something has been done to them, Charles.  
    They haven't become ill simply because of  
    age or genetic predisposition.  It's  
    unnatural, the way their cancers have--"
    
    Before she could finish, he clicked the  
    object he was holding.  That was the last  
    thing she saw before the world faded to  
    black.
    
    ****
    
    Mulder was pulling off his running shoes  
    when he heard his cell phone chirping from  
    somewhere in the depths of his apartment.  
    He pulled the nearly-removed shoe off and  
    dropped it to the floor, before limping  
    half-shod into his living room.  He'd left  
    his phone somewhere in the room, he knew.
    
    After following the sound and shuffling  
    several of the magazines and papers  
    littering his coffee table, he picked up  
    the phone.  Peering at the caller ID, he  
    tried to figure out who 703-555-0407 might  
    be.  No one he knew, he was sure.
    
    "Mulder."
    
    "Agent Mulder?"
    
    "Yes, may I ask who's calling?"
    
    "This is Phil Beckett with the Loudoun  
    County Sheriff's Department.  I'm calling  
    from Beatrice Stevens' estate.  Your  
    business card was on her desk, and you're  
    in her planner twice this month."
    
    "Yes."  He was suddenly wary.
    
    "Can I ask what the nature of your meetings  
    were?  Was she under investigation?"
    
    "Not her, exactly."  He exhaled.  "It's  
    complicated."
    
    "I have a feeling it may have just gotten  
    more complicated for you, then.  This  
    morning, her farrier showed up for an  
    appointment and found her dead in her  
    barn."
    
    Mulder glanced at his watch before  
    responding, "How long ago was this?"
    
    "Just an hour ago.  I thought I ought to be  
    in touch with you, in case the FBI had some  
    interest in her."
    
    "I do.  I'll be there in an hour."
    
    "We'll be waiting for you."
    
    Mulder ended the call, then hit the button  
    to call Scully.  As he waited for her to  
    answer, he gave himself a sniff and moved  
    towards the bedroom, pulling out weekend  
    work attire.  He could get there much  
    faster if Scully would hurry up and answer  
    her phone, and if he could skip a shower.
    
    ****
    
    Scully watched the pastureland roll by as  
    they drove to Beatrice Stevens' property  
    for the third time in two weeks.  She had  
    still been asleep when Mulder called her,  
    and she was astonished by the late morning  
    hour as much as the information he'd  
    relayed to her.
    
    The graceful circular drive was crowded  
    with police vehicles when they arrived, the  
    lights on a few still flashing off the  
    brick facade of the house.  A gangly young  
    man was leaning against one of the cars and  
    he made his way to them as they exited  
    their vehicle.
    
    "Agent Mulder?"  He looked back and forth  
    between the two of them.
    
    "I'm Agent Mulder, and this is my partner,  
    Agent Scully."
    
    The young officer glanced down at her, and  
    she suddenly wished she'd spent a few extra  
    seconds digging a pair of higher heels out  
    of her closet.  Her voice was cold as she  
    spoke.  "We were called about Beatrice  
    Stevens, Officer --?"
    
    "Lee.  Just follow me, ma'am."  He bobbed  
    his spiky blond head and started down the  
    hill towards the stable.
    
    Mulder had the grace to look apologetically  
    at her as they followed Lee down the hill.  
    A red pickup truck was backed up to the  
    barn's entry, the sides of the cab open to  
    reveal vast racks of nails and horseshoes.  
    It seemed forgotten, simply trapped by the  
    flock of police cars blocking its exit.
    
    Emerging from behind the truck, a portly,  
    middle-aged man strode past Officer Lee and  
    stopped in front of Mulder.  "You must be  
    Agent Mulder.  Glad you got here so  
    quickly.  Not that I'm positive that this  
    is a crime scene, mind you, but I thought  
    you'd want a look."
    
    "I'm very glad you did.  I'll let Agent  
    Scully have a look--she'll be able to tell  
    us if it is."  He extended a hand, ushering  
    her forward.
    
    She edged around the farrier's truck and  
    halted just inside the doorway, looking  
    down on the collapsed form of Beatrice  
    Stevens.  It appeared that she'd simply  
    lost consciousness and fallen, landing  
    heavily on her left side with arms and legs  
    akimbo.
    
    Scully took a deep breath before crouching  
    for a closer look at the body.  First she  
    noticed that the body's fluids had settled  
    on the left side and the lack of any  
    bruising.   She took note of posthumous  
    nibbling of rodents on the fingers and  
    wrists.  Otherwise, there was very little  
    amiss with the body.  Nothing about it  
    suggested foul play.
    
    When she heard Mulder's steps on the  
    aisleway, she turned to tell him that what  
    they were most likely seeing was the result  
    of a stroke or heart attack.  The words  
    died on her lips when she saw him staring  
    down at a lone cigarette butt ground into  
    the concrete.
    
    "Mulder, you don't really think--that has  
    to be a coincidence."
    
    "On another case, I might give you that  
    point.  But given what we've already seen  
    on this case--did you forget that  
    photograph already?--I don't think it is."
    
    "It's a lone cigarette.  It could be the  
    farrier's.  It could have been Beatrice's."
    
    "There's no lipstick on it, and she's  
    wearing some."  He looked warily down at  
    the body.  "I'll go talk to the farrier."
    
    Scully watched him give the cigarette  
    another glance before turning to the  
    doorway.  A series of shrill whinnies broke  
    the quiet, punctuated by the thudding of a  
    hoof against the wooden stalls.  "While  
    you're talking, ask if someone's fed them.  
    She's been dead for at least twelve hours.  
    They're probably hungry."
    
    "Sure."  He disappeared into the bright  
    spring light as she turned back to the body  
    and pulled on a pair of gloves.
    
    ****
    
    Mulder tried to keep one eye on Scully,  
    still working over Beatrice's body, as the  
    farrier led him down the barn aisle.  The  
    spry older man carried a full bucket of  
    grain, dumping seemingly arbitrary amounts  
    in to the hungry horses.
    
    "What time did you arrive here, Mr.  
    Willard?"
    
    "Oh, 'round 8:30.  I was supposed to be  
    here at eight, but I got a call last night  
    and had to stop and reshoe a horse that's  
    'chasing this afternoon.  I was supposed to  
    be at the 'chase now, but I guess that's  
    not happening."
    
    "No, that's not looking likely."  Mulder  
    had no idea what the horse was going to be  
    chasing, but this whole case left him  
    wishing he had more knowledge of horse  
    sports.  "Did you contact Mrs. Stevens to  
    tell her that you would be late this  
    morning?"
    
    "Naw, she knows I always show up.  I've  
    done--er, did, I guess--last minute things  
    for her over the years enough.  Didn't  
    figure that a quick shoe this morning would  
    make me too late, anyway."  Robert Willard  
    paused outside Belle's stall, ignoring her  
    pounding on the door, and dumped grain into  
    her bucket after a quick glance at the  
    notecard affixed to the front of the stall.
    
    "Do you smoke?"
    
    "Used to.  But then, oh, seven, eight years  
    ago Lily--that's my wife--got lung cancer.  
    We'd both been smokers.  At our age, there  
    aren't many people who weren't at one time.  
    No one told us when we were young that it  
    was bad, like they do now.  We both quit  
    then.  Lily had a lung out, and we try to  
    stay away from it now.  Why d'you ask?"
    
    "A cigarette butt was found a few yards  
    away from Mrs. Stevens.  I was wondering if  
    might have been yours, or if she might have  
    been smoking it."
    
    "I never saw Bea with a cigarette in thirty  
    years of doing her horses.  Maybe she did  
    at parties or something, but never when I  
    was around.  She'd've known better than to  
    smoke in a stable, even if she did."  He  
    inclined his head towards a bale of hay  
    sitting beside the wood wall.
    
    Mulder realized instantly just how easily  
    the whole structure could be burned with a  
    single errant ash.  "Most people who spent  
    much time around horses would know better,  
    then?"
    
    Robert shrugged and trudged up the aisle  
    towards the tack room, swinging the now-  
    empty feed bucket.  "Well, they know  
    better, yeah.  But that doesn't mean that  
    they don't.  I know a few older huntsmen  
    that smoke while out riding.  But that  
    wasn't her style."
    
    "No, it doesn't seem like it."  Mulder  
    looked around the tack room as Robert sat  
    the bucket back on top of one of the tin  
    trashcans filled with grain.  A desk sat in  
    one corner, and strapgoods he couldn't  
    identify were neatly hung on the walls.  
    Three saddles sat on racks along one wall,  
    which was hung with yet more ribbons and  
    photographs.  The small room smelled of  
    dust and leather and very faintly of the  
    sweet grain that had just been provided to  
    the horses.
    
    "Was anyone here when you arrived?  You  
    didn't see anything out of the ordinary?"
    
    "Nope, no cars at all.  I pulled down here  
    without seeing the horses out--she always  
    had 'em in and ready for me.  Barn door was  
    open, so I figured she was ready and  
    waiting.  Then I came in and saw her lying  
    there..."  he trailed off with a small  
    sniffle.  "A lotta people around here are  
    going to miss her.  She was a very good  
    lady."
    
    "I'm sure she will be."  Mulder hesitantly  
    put a hand on the man's shoulder.  "Thank  
    you for taking the time this morning to  
    help us out with this."  He removed his  
    hand and pulled out a business card.  
    "We'll be in touch with you if we need  
    anything more than the statement you gave  
    the Loudoun County officers this morning."
    
    Robert nodded.  "Right.  Glad to have  
    helped someone, though I'd have been  
    happier not to."  He turned and strode out,  
    bandy-legged, and made a beeline for his  
    truck.
    
    Mulder watched him go, from the safety of  
    the tack room doorway.  Scully didn't spare  
    him a second look from where she was deep  
    in conversation with one of the Loudoun  
    County Sheriffs and her cell phone.  From  
    the fractions of conversation that filtered  
    through to him, Mulder heard her making  
    arrangements for an autopsy bay for the  
    following afternoon at Quantico.
    
    He knew that her first reaction was to  
    assume that this death had been caused by  
    heart attack or stroke.  Apparently her  
    subsequent investigation had left her  
    thinking otherwise.
    
    ****  
    End Chapter 6  
    Continued in Chapter 7  
    ****
    
    ****  
    Chapter 7  
    ****
    
    For the first time in several years, Mulder  
    settled himself into an orange plastic  
    chair in the autopsy bay, watching Scully  
    as she began the autopsy on Beatrice  
    Stevens.  He'd been eager to sit in, and  
    she had no particular objection.  In  
    autopsies past, he had usually been more of  
    a hindrance than a help, but today she was  
    inexplicably grateful for the silent  
    company.  If he'd asked her, of course, she  
    would have simply said she was in an  
    indulgent mood.  She had to admit, too,  
    that he did occasionally ask questions that  
    led her in a useful direction with her  
    examination.
    
    She worked slowly, taking her time and  
    double-checking everything.  As she  
    progressed, she took samples, carefully  
    tagging them for laboratory testing.  Along  
    with the mounting stack of samples for  
    testing were an increasing number of  
    questions.  While she hoped the lab work  
    would provide answers, she doubted that  
    would be the case.  Mulder had allowed her  
    to work without interruption, though she  
    could feel him watching her every move.
    
    Two hours into the autopsy, she paused to  
    stretch, her shoulders and back popping as  
    she did so.  Before returning to the body,  
    she caught Mulder's gaze, inviting his  
    inquiry.
    
    "Find anything, Scully?"
    
    She sighed.  "Unless something shows up on  
    the tox screen, the cause of death was  
    cardiac arrest."
    
    "Heart attack?"
    
    "Well, technically.  But I'm at a loss to  
    explain the cause of that--she was in  
    excellent shape for her age.  There's  
    minimal atherosclerosis.  It's looking more  
    like her body just...stopped, instantly."  
    She paused and looked down at the body open  
    in front of her.  "I'm running enzyme  
    tests, but because she died so rapidly, I  
    doubt that they'll tell us much."
    
    Mulder just nodded and settled back into  
    the chair, surprising her.  She'd expected  
    him to press for more information or  
    theories.
    
    She returned to work, cautiously tipping  
    the body onto its side, then peering at the  
    scar on the back of Beatrice's neck.  It  
    was small, faint, and would probably have  
    been missed by someone not knowing what to  
    look for.  But then, she told herself, it  
    could just be a coincidence.  Yet given the  
    number of coincidences on this case, she  
    felt it unlikely.
    
    With a gloved finger, she carefully probed  
    the skin before making a shallow incision  
    with her scalpel.  In seconds, she saw what  
    she feared she would find.
    
    "Mulder."
    
    Her voice caused him to snap to attention,  
    bouncing toward the edge of his seat.  
    "What did you find?"
    
    "Come here."
    
    She exchanged her scalpel for a delicate  
    pair of tweezers, and extracted a small  
    microchip.  As Mulder reached her side, she  
    held it out for him.
    
    When she dropped it into a Petri dish, both  
    stared at it silently for a long moment.
    
    ****
    
    Mulder looked up into the camera as he  
    waited for the Gunmen to buzz him into  
    their lair.  One hand remained in his coat  
    pocket, lightly grasping the Petri dish  
    there.  The other hand toyed with the door  
    handle, giving it a swift tug when he was  
    finally granted entrance.  The long hallway  
    back to their offices was dark, and he had  
    to walk carefully to avoid the piles of  
    paperwork and unidentified mechanical  
    parts.
    
    "Mulder, my man."  Frohike's voice rang  
    across the electronics-filled room as  
    Mulder entered.  "What have you brought for  
    us today?"
    
    He removed the chip from his pocket,  
    setting the Petri dish on the cluttered  
    countertop next to one of the computers.  
    "Scully found this today."
    
    Langly looked away from one of the monitors  
    long enough to take in the chip.  "Whoa.  
    Another one?"
    
    "Yes."  Mulder felt no need to elaborate.  
    Langly's startled question was enough to  
    draw Byers and Frohike in for a closer  
    look.
    
    "Is this related to Agent Scully's current  
    health situation?"  Byers' inquiry was  
    tentative, and he spoke from behind Langly.
    
    "Not directly.  It's related to a case  
    we're currently investigating.  But the  
    case does seem to have some parallels."
    
    Frohike pushed Mulder aside and removed the  
    chip, placing it on a microscope.  Langly  
    clicked a few buttons on the computer, and  
    the chip appeared, ten times larger, on  
    screen.
    
    Mulder looked around at the faces of the  
    Gunmen, all staring carefully at the  
    magnified image.  "Well?"
    
    "Well, it looks an awful lot like the one  
    you and Scully brought us."  Langly clicked  
    away as he spoke, pulling up an image of  
    the chip that had been removed from  
    Scully's neck.
    
    Side by side, the images were nearly  
    identical.
    
    Frohike reached for the microscope,  
    carefully shifting the chip a few degrees  
    to the left.  Langly zoomed in once more,  
    bringing the details of the chip into the  
    foreground.
    
    "I looks like the processors are a bit less  
    advanced than the one removed from Agent  
    Scully," commented Frohike, tracing a few  
    of the electronic components and addressing  
    Langley.
    
    "Yeah.  I'd definitely say it's an older  
    model."  Langley clicked away once more,  
    bringing a similar but streamlined image  
    onto the screen.  "Look at that.  Totally  
    version 2.0."
    
    "You boys all agree we're looking at the  
    same thing here?  But a slightly different  
    model?"  Mulder squinted at the monitor,  
    trying to spot the differences between the  
    chips.
    
    "There are some minimal differences in the  
    exact components used, but they're  
    essentially the same thing."  Byers sounded  
    certain.  He reached out a finger, tracing  
    a group of tiny wires on Scully's chip.  
    "See this circuit?  Not wired exactly how I  
    would expect it to be, but in and of itself  
    nothing unusual."  He traced a similar set  
    on the chip from Beatrice.  "But it's  
    exactly the same way here, just with  
    slightly different wires."
    
    Mulder continued to stare at the monitor,  
    looking between the two almost-identical  
    images.
    
    "Does this make those parallels a whole lot  
    closer?" Frohike queried, toying with the  
    microscope set up, bringing the chip into  
    sharper relief.
    
    "A whole lot closer," Mulder echoed.
    
    ****
    
    Wind rustled through the tender spring  
    leaves and pushed puffy clouds across the  
    slender moon.  Charlotte watched the  
    ghostly clouds race overhead as she rocked  
    back in the worn, wooden chair.  The wicker  
    seat creaked as she shifted, nearly  
    drowning out the sound of approaching  
    footsteps on the gravel walkway.
    
    The figure was a silhouette in the dark as  
    it emerged around the corner of the house.  
    Only when the figure halted at the bottom  
    of the steps did Charlotte deign to look  
    down, noting the thin wisp of smoke  
    floating away into the darkness.
    
    "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here  
    tonight, Charles."
    
    "And you've got a lot of nerve to speak to  
    me that way, young lady."  He stepped out  
    of the shrubbery's shadows and dropped the  
    cigarette into the gravel.
    
    "Young lady, am I?" she drawled.  "Compared  
    to you, I suppose I am.  But I think it's  
    more than justified, given the  
    circumstances."  She didn't move from the  
    rocker, simply gazed coolly down at him.
    
    "You had to know what the outcome of this  
    would be.  Especially after your little  
    luncheon.  You're lucky you haven't met a  
    similar fate."
    
    "I told Agent Mulder nothing of use."
    
    "Your mother would have been wise to do the  
    same."  He stepped closer to the porch,  
    once again standing in the shadows.
    
    Charlotte sat up straighter, poised on the  
    edge of the chair.  "You took great care to  
    make sure she didn't reveal more than you  
    wished.  It never did sit well with you  
    when someone actually knew what game they  
    were playing with you."
    
    "But you're well aware of the dangerous  
    game you're playing now, my dear."
    
    "I am."  She leveled a hard look at him,  
    focusing on the faint sparkle of his eyes  
    in the darkness.
    
    His eyes traced over her sitting form  
    before he answered.  "You always were a  
    gambler like your father.  Are you sure the  
    odds aren't too high for you this time?  
    The stakes are very high."
    
    "That's what makes the payoff worthwhile."  
    She finally looked away, out towards the  
    pastures where the dark shadows of horses  
    could be seen grazing.  "And occasionally  
    there are chances you have to take, because  
    not taking them isn't an option."
    
    "You would risk everything we've worked  
    for--your father worked for--over this?"
    
    "Are you barking mad?"  She whipped around  
    to look at him incredulously.  "A few  
    harmless chips, brief disappearances, the  
    deaths of a few animals--that was all  
    justifiable.  Unpleasant, but justifiable.  
    But to dispose so casually with the  
    daughter, widow and mother of those who  
    have been involved since the beginning is  
    the most reprehensible thing you've ever  
    done.  And you've done a lot of  
    reprehensible things."
    
    "You don't have much room to criticize my  
    behavior, Charlotte.  You're no angel."  He  
    withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his coat  
    pocket, taking his time in lighting one  
    before offering the pack to her.
    
    "No thank you," she said.  "I'm well aware  
    of what I've done."
    
    "Then you should think very carefully about  
    what your next move should be.  You know  
    there's only one out in this--you've known  
    that since the beginning."
    
    "I never said I wanted out.  But that  
    doesn't mean I don't want retribution."  
    She settled back into the chair, crossing  
    her arms against her chest.
    
    "There's no having it both ways.  And I  
    don't think you'll find the others any more  
    amenable to retribution or restitution than  
    I am."  He took a long drag on the  
    cigarette, the end flaring red in the dark.  
    "We'll expect you at the meeting, to settle  
    this matter once and for all.  I suggest  
    you weigh your words there carefully."
    
    "I wonder whether I haven't already been  
    weighed and measured.  I doubt my words  
    will make a bit of difference."  She pushed  
    off with one foot, slowly rocking the  
    chair.  "Just give me time to grieve this."
    
    "A few days may give you a much better  
    perspective on all this, in the grand  
    scheme of things."
    
    "Indeed."  She refused to be baited further  
    by him.
    
    For several minutes, they both rested in  
    uneasy silence on the porch.  When a shrill  
    whinny broke the night, he turned away from  
    her.
    
    "Good night, Charlotte."
    
    She didn't respond as he disappeared back  
    down the walkway into the still Virginia  
    night.
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 8  
    ****
    
    Scully shuffled into the office and Mulder  
    instantly regretted the ruin of her  
    weekend.  He'd known she needed rest, but  
    he'd also needed her on the case with him.  
    His guilt increased when she sat down,  
    motionless at her desk, without turning on  
    her computer.
    
    "Did the preliminary test results come in  
    yet?" she finally asked.
    
    "Yeah, they did."  He rose and carried the  
    bulky envelope to her desk, resting it  
    gently on the corner.  He took one step  
    back, resting against a filing cabinet as  
    she tore into the package.
    
    There was silence as she flipped through  
    the pages, occasionally nodding her head or  
    frowning.
    
    "Well, what do you think?"
    
    "There's absolutely nothing in any of these  
    tests to indicate cause of death.  No  
    elevated enzyme levels, no foreign  
    substances.  Nothing," she said.  "For no  
    apparent reason, her body systems just shut  
    down."
    
    "Which is something, though, right?"
    
    "Oh," she said with a sigh, "I don't have  
    the energy to play 'is this something?'  
    with you on this case again.  Any other  
    time, I'd say it wasn't, and that plenty of  
    people drop dead from nothing more than old  
    age every day.  But like the cancer in her  
    animals, there are too many coincidences  
    here for them to be just coincidences."
    
    He nodded and took in the exhausted  
    resignation in her voice.  "So where do you  
    suggest we go from here?"
    
    For a moment she stared down at the test  
    results, then said, "Well, I don't know  
    that there's much of a case now.  There's  
    no medical evidence that Beatrice Stevens'  
    death was from anything but natural causes.  
    The animals are, for all legal intents and  
    purposes, property, whatever emotional  
    attachments we chose to place on them.  
    Without a property owner interested in  
    pursuing the matter..."
    
    "There is no investigation," he finished  
    for her.
    
    Both were quiet for a moment, and he  
    studied her pale face.  He would almost be  
    happy to give up this case, to stay in the  
    office doing inane paperwork for several  
    months.  But this case had offered a  
    possible solution, tantalizing clues that  
    seemed to point to answers to his questions  
    and her health problems.  Could he just  
    walk away from that?
    
    "I know you don't want to leave it, Mulder,  
    but unless one of her children is  
    interested in pursuing it, I fail to see  
    how we can."
    
    "There were just so many pieces of the  
    puzzle here, floating just under the  
    surface.  If I just had the right lens, I  
    could have seen them all, put them all  
    together-"
    
    "Don't do this to yourself, not over this,"  
    she said.  "I know you would have liked to  
    untangle this mess, to find answers.  
    Personally, I-I think I would have liked  
    some answers about all of this, too."  She  
    stared down at her hands, denying him the  
    opportunity to study her face as she spoke.
    
    "That's the biggest reason I wanted this  
    case."  He spoke honestly, emotions close  
    to the surface.  He needed her to know he  
    felt this almost as deeply as she did--that  
    he wanted this for her.  "This could have  
    saved you."
    
    "You don't know that.  It might have," she  
    paused and met his gaze before correcting  
    herself, "looked likely to provide some of  
    the answers we've been hunting for.  But  
    I'm not willing to make deals with the  
    devil or operate outside the boundaries of  
    the law to find them.  Especially when we  
    don't know whether they'll really be of  
    help to us.  To me."
    
    "You don't think the evidence we've seen on  
    this case was genuine?  After being warned  
    off it by that chain-smoking bastard and  
    seeing the woman who presented it to us die  
    under questionable circumstances?"
    
    She shook her head.  "I think Beatrice was  
    truthful about what she knew had happened.  
    But you of all people know that truth can  
    be subjective.  The information we've seen  
    on this case, though, especially given the  
    smoking man's involvement, I can't quite  
    bring myself to trust.  It may be as much  
    of a red herring as Charlotte's denials of  
    insurance fraud--it looks and sounds  
    plausible, but is it really?"
    
    "But what if it's not?  What if pursuing  
    this would have revealed a cure for you,  
    and answers about the tests that were  
    inflicted on innumerable women across the  
    country?"  He knew he sounded as  
    righteously angry as he felt.
    
    "Then it means I won't have a cure and we  
    won't have answers."  How did she manage to  
    sound so pragmatic?  "We're no worse off  
    than before we took this case."
    
    He raked his gaze over her, noticing a  
    thousand tiny ways in which she seemed much  
    worse off than when they'd taken this case.  
    "Can you honestly tell me you're not any  
    worse?"
    
    That seemed to spark something in her.  
    "While I can't tell you that I'm better, I  
    also can't say that I'm worse.  But I'm  
    undergoing treatment that has been  
    scientifically proven to help.  That's  
    worth far more in my book than the  
    speculation and presumptions we've worked  
    under on this case."
    
    "Fair enough."
    
    Mulder settled back down behind his desk,  
    and Scully turned back to hers.  She  
    finally started up the computer and was  
    checking her messages when he rose, loudly  
    jangling change in his pocket.  "I'm going  
    to grab a soda.  You want anything?"
    
    "No, thank you."  She didn't glance away  
    from the monitor as he passed.
    
    When he returned from the vending machines,  
    she was still scrolling through the  
    messages.  He paused in the doorway,  
    watching and wondering if she was even  
    reading the messages, or merely putting in  
    the appearance of doing something.  Closer  
    to the latter, he decided, as she stared  
    for a long moment at what he knew to be a  
    reminder about the carpet cleaning due to  
    take place over the coming weekend.
    
    Without a word, he walked back to his desk,  
    pausing only to place a small, yellow  
    package on the corner of hers.  As he sat,  
    he heard the crinkle as she picked it up,  
    then the split second of silence before she  
    ripped it open.
    
    "Thanks," she said, her voice slightly  
    garbled by the peanut M&M she crunched down  
    on as she spoke.
    
    They continued playing at normality at  
    their desks for the rest of the afternoon.
    
    ****
    
    The pungent scent of permanent marker ink  
    filled her nostrils as she finished  
    addressing the manila envelope.  The  
    padding inside crackled as she firmly  
    pressed the seal closed.  It was all a bit  
    more than was necessary, of course--the  
    tiny metal cylinder now enclosed within  
    certainly would withstand anything that the  
    US Post Office could throw at it.  Just to  
    be safe, though, she reached into the top  
    desk drawer and withdrew a stamp.  Pressing  
    it to the front of the envelope, she  
    emblazoned FRAGILE in vivid scarlet.
    
    The cylinder was small, barely making a  
    bulge in the mailer.  For a moment, she  
    worried about sending it through so public  
    a source as the US Mail.  But she returned  
    to her original rationalization that hiding  
    in plain view was often the most secure  
    camouflage of all.  And if she hurried, it  
    could be in the mail tonight, for delivery  
    tomorrow.
    
    Surely that would buy the valuable package  
    enough of a chance of arriving at its  
    destination.  So long as no one realized it  
    had come from her, perhaps she might even  
    see the fruits of its successful delivery.
    
    ****
    
    Like a young child on Christmas morning, it  
    was all Mulder could do to resist ripping  
    open the small envelope that had arrived  
    for Scully.  With great restraint, he'd  
    placed it on her desk, propped against the  
    edge of her keyboard where he was sure she  
    would notice it immediately and put his  
    curiosity to rest.
    
    At the moment, his interest over the  
    package was tempered only by his concern  
    over Scully's whereabouts.  It was around  
    the time she had taken to drifting into the  
    office after her radiation treatments,  
    stolidly keeping up the faade of working.  
    Neither of them were getting much work  
    done, but he respected her effort enough  
    not to mention it.  And he knew that she  
    had taken that first Monday off to humor  
    him; further such suggestions would not be  
    met so well.
    
    The trilling of his phone broke into his  
    reverie.
    
    "Mulder."
    
    "It's me," Scully whispered over the line.
    
    "Hey, Scully, where are you?  There's  
    something waiting here for you."
    
    "Oh."  There was a moment of static before  
    she continued, "It'll have to wait for  
    tomorrow.  Put it in the fridge.  I'm  
    not...I won't be in this afternoon."
    
    He smiled as he answered, "I wasn't talking  
    about your salad, but I'll put that in the  
    fridge for you.  Are you feeling okay?"
    
    "I'm fine, just tired.  Working over the  
    weekend caught up with me.  I've got  
    journals here to catch up on.  I can read  
    my mail tomorrow."
    
    "Sure, get some rest.  I'll catch you  
    later, Scully."
    
    "See you tomorrow."
    
    He heard the beep across the line as she  
    terminated the call.  He couldn't help but  
    stare at the package as he replaced the  
    receiver on the cradle.  Maybe another Cosi  
    visit was in order.
    
    ****
    
    She wasn't surprised when a knock at the  
    door roused her from half-heartedly  
    reading.  The news ticker on CNN told her  
    it was nearly six; she'd passed the  
    afternoon without accomplishing a thing.  
    Tossing the latest issue of the New England  
    Journal of Medicine aside, she made a  
    beeline for the door.
    
    Without looking through the peephole, she  
    swung the door open wide; there was only  
    one person it could be.
    
    "Come in, Mulder."
    
    He stepped into the apartment, the paper  
    bag containing dinner rustling with the  
    movement.  "I brought sandwiches.  I  
    thought you might not feel like cooking."
    
    That earned him a smile as she locked the  
    door once more.  "I never like cooking.  
    But what's in the envelope?"
    
    "This arrived for you in the mail today.  
    It doesn't feel like there's much inside."
    
    "You were groping my mail?"  She barely  
    stifled a laugh as she reached for the  
    small manila envelope.
    
    "Just a little."  He handed it to her and  
    carried their dinner into the kitchen.  "It  
    was mailed yesterday from the post office  
    by Farragut Square," he called back over  
    his shoulder, to where she stood starting  
    perplexedly at the envelope.  "I don't  
    recognize the handwriting, and there's no  
    return address."
    
    "Suspicious," she concurred, walking into  
    the kitchen herself and placing the  
    envelope on the table.  She left it there  
    as she found plates in her cupboards and  
    handed them to Mulder, who was eagerly  
    unwrapping a still-steaming tuna melt.  
    "How close did you come to ripping it open  
    without me there?"
    
    "Pretty damn close."
    
    "You must have been terrible at Christmas."
    
    "My parents made a rule when I was younger,  
    that I was not allowed out of bed before  
    seven a.m. on Christmas morning for any  
    reason."  He frowned and placed a ginger  
    chicken sandwich on the plate she proffered  
    him.  "I used to bribe Sam with candy canes  
    to go see what was under the tree."
    
    They were both quiet as they sat down at  
    her table, plates buffering the space  
    between them.
    
    Scully cleared her throat after a bite of  
    sandwich.  "So this envelope arrived for me  
    today, and you have managed to avoid  
    opening it.  But you have your suspicions  
    on what's inside."  It wasn't a question;  
    she knew he needed little encouragement to  
    offer up speculation, even when the  
    question could easily be settled by ripping  
    the paper right now.
    
    "I think it's from Charlotte Stevens."  
    Scully's raised eyebrow prompted him to  
    continue, "The handwriting looks feminine.  
    I think she's doing what she can to answer  
    for her mother's death."
    
    "By sending me an envelope."  She put down  
    her sandwich and reached for the envelope,  
    turning it over in her hands.  One small  
    bulge was visible, and the only sound was  
    from the crinkling of plastic packing, not  
    from any notes.
    
    Mulder held out a hand in invitation.  "So  
    open it and find out for sure."
    
    The kitchen suddenly seemed preternaturally  
    silent.  The sound of the envelope being  
    torn open was astonishingly loud in the  
    silence.  Scully squeezed the sides of the  
    envelope, causing it to gape open.  She  
    tilted it towards her face and stared  
    inside, confusion furrowing her brow.
    
    She pushed her plate away, then tipped the  
    envelope sideways.  With a metallic thunk,  
    a silver cylinder, no bigger than her  
    pinkie finger, fell to the table and rolled  
    a few inches, coming to rest against her  
    napkin.
    
    Before she could pick it up, Mulder's hand  
    snaked across the table and bore it away  
    for his own examination.  She looked on in  
    frustration as he stared, nearly cross-  
    eyed, at it, rolling it between fingers  
    that obscured it from her view.
    
    Suddenly, he brought it down to table level  
    and twisted one end, which came off in his  
    fingers.
    
    "Stop, Mulder."  He did, meeting her gaze  
    without a word.  "We can't just open up  
    whatever that is on my kitchen table."
    
    "And where do you suggest we examine it?  
    The lab at work?"
    
    No, that struck her as a worse idea than  
    experimenting on her table.  "The Gunmen?"  
    she ventured.
    
    Mulder was already pulling out his cell  
    phone as he nodded in assent.
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 9  
    ****
    
    Mulder shifted impatiently from foot to  
    foot as Scully and Byers took turns gazing  
    though the microscope.  He was getting an  
    eerie feeling of dj vu as Langly called a  
    series of images up on the computer  
    monitor.
    
    "Yeah, so this looks pretty similar,"  
    Langly said, nodding to the side-by-side  
    images on the monitor.
    
    They looked identical to Mulder.  "Which is  
    which?"
    
    "This one's from before," said Langly as he  
    pointed to the image on the left.  "And  
    this one is the one you brought us  
    tonight."
    
    Mulder stood frozen, captivated by the  
    images before him.  His fixation on the  
    monitor broke only when Scully took a few  
    steps backwards.  She'd been quiet since  
    they'd opened the tiny tube to reveal a  
    microchip.  Now she was slowly disengaging  
    from the situation.  The Gunmen were too  
    engrossed in examining their newest piece  
    of mystery technology to pay much heed, but  
    Mulder noticed, saying nothing as she edged  
    out of the computer-filled room.  He simply  
    followed her.
    
    She had to know he was behind her; the  
    poured concrete floor did little to muffle  
    either of their footsteps.  Still, neither  
    of them spoke as she strode rapidly down  
    the cluttered hallway, maneuvering adroitly  
    around racks of electronics and piles of  
    old magazines.  Mulder trailed two steps  
    behind.
    
    When she reached what passed for the  
    Gunmen's kitchen, she finally halted, her  
    back to Mulder and her hands planted firmly  
    on the counter on either side of her.
    
    "Scully?"  Mulder's voice seemed terribly  
    loud as it echoed off the Formica and  
    plastic of the kitchen.  Without thinking,  
    he reached out for her, fingers barely  
    grazing her shoulder.
    
    She drew up and away from his touch,  
    pressing closer against the battered puce  
    countertop.  "Mulder, I just....  Give me a  
    minute, okay?"  She didn't turn to face  
    him.
    
    He didn't respond, simply stepped away  
    towards the refrigerator.  He pulled out  
    two Diet Cokes and walked to the ancient  
    dinette set, sitting down and placing the  
    second can directly across the table from  
    him.  He could hear her drawing a few deep  
    breaths as he snapped open the can.  The  
    sharp sound finally drew Scully's  
    attention, and she glanced back over her  
    shoulder at him.
    
    Without a word, she crossed to the table  
    and dropped into the rickety metal chair  
    across from him.  "Thanks."  She popped  
    open the can and took a sip, buying herself  
    yet more time to think.
    
    Mulder waited.
    
    "I don't know what to think," she finally  
    said.
    
    Mulder nodded and sat his can on the table,  
    staring at it rather than her.  Abruptly,  
    he looked up at her.  "How do you feel?"
    
    Mulder could see the panic flicker across  
    her face before she replied.  "It scares  
    the shit out of me.  This is so far outside  
    the realm of what I understand about our  
    medical technology that I don't even know  
    how to think about it."  She drew a deep  
    breath and continued in a whisper, "It  
    terrifies me to think that I'm entangled in  
    this."
    
    All Mulder could do was nod and let her  
    talk.  He was startled when she reached  
    across the table and latched onto his hand.
    
    "There's someone out there with the ability  
    to get to anyone, anywhere.  Who got to me.  
    Someone who can make information disappear  
    and answers appear out of thin air.  And I  
    don't know whether to be more frightened by  
    the power that these unknowns have, or by  
    the fact that this chip might not do what  
    we're meant to think it will."
    
    "But Scully--"
    
    "No, that's a possibility we have to  
    consider.  We have no idea where that chip  
    came from.  I know you want to believe it's  
    a cure for me, but we have no proof at all  
    that putting a chip back into my neck will  
    ameliorate matters.  What if it makes them  
    worse?"
    
    Mulder saw the unspoken fear in her eyes,  
    and being a natural paranoid, he knew what  
    was worrying her.  What if this chip did  
    nothing?  What if it caused her cancer to  
    metastasize more rapidly?  What if They  
    could use it to control her?  What if this  
    chip killed her?
    
    Too many what-ifs.
    
    For once, he kept his darker concerns to  
    himself.  "What do you want to do?"
    
    She graced him with a watery smile.  "Do  
    you think the risk is worth taking?"
    
    He was stunned and it took him a moment to  
    formulate a response.  "I can't fathom not  
    taking a chance that could save your life.  
    I think that potential good outweighs all  
    the other risks."
    
    Slowly, her head bobbed in assent, and it  
    seemed an eternity before she quietly  
    responded, "I'm not ready to die yet."
    
    "I'm not going to let you."  He rose from  
    the table and used her grip on his hand to  
    draw her up as well, watching as the  
    protest died on her lips.  For just a  
    moment she tensed as he wrapped his arms  
    around her, then she returned the embrace.
    
    He reluctantly drew away from her and  
    looked down at her face.  There was fear  
    and worry there, but also determination.  
    "So let's go figure out how to make this  
    happen."
    
    The mood was much lighter as they  
    maneuvered back down the Gunmen's cluttered  
    hallway.  The men looked up as Mulder and  
    Scully returned to the room, seemingly  
    startled to realize they'd been missing at  
    all.
    
    ****
    
    Charlotte walked down the dim hallway,  
    heels connecting sharply with the  
    herringboned hardwood floor.  When she  
    reached the elegantly carved door that  
    loomed over the corridor, she rapped three  
    times.
    
    After a moment, the door swung open.  All  
    the old familiar faces were there, though  
    once more it struck her how odd it was to  
    see Marcus sitting in what had been her  
    father's wingback chair.  It should be her  
    place.
    
    The room was brighter than the hallway, but  
    not by much.  Heavy draperies hung at the  
    windows, blocking much of the bright  
    morning light.  Two white stripes broke  
    through, making the darkness elsewhere seem  
    much more prominent.  In the light beams,  
    she could see flecks of dust floating in  
    the air.  Everything here smelled faintly  
    of cigars.
    
    "Charlotte my dear, so glad you could join  
    us."  Stepping out of the darkness between  
    two windows, CGB Spender approached her.  
    He gestured towards one of the old cordovan  
    leather chairs, urging her to sit.  The  
    others, who had been socializing in small  
    groups around the room, moved to do the  
    same.
    
    A wizened man with a faintly British accent  
    spoke as the last members gathered around.  
    "So has the Stevens issue been resolved,  
    Charles?"
    
    Spender exhaled a cloud of smoke, which  
    drifted up to join the smoky haze lingering  
    around the ceiling.  "It has, Richard,  
    unless there's something our own Miss  
    Stevens would like to add."
    
    Everyone in the room turned to look at her.  
    She still wasn't quite sure what to say to  
    them, despite a day spent thinking of  
    little else.  Even the funeral planning had  
    fallen to Thom as she planned for this  
    meeting.  After a deep breath, she said,  
    "Yes, there is something I would like to  
    add.  While I realize that some action was  
    necessary to prevent Beatrice Stevens from  
    revealing information to the FBI, I don't  
    believe the manner of resolution was an  
    appropriate one."
    
    "And what would you have had me do?"  
    Spender continued to gaze placidly at her.  
    "Certainly those who have crossed us in the  
    past have met worse ends.  Of the possible  
    solutions, this was the most humane."  
    Several of the other men nodded in assent.
    
    Charlotte shook her head.  "I don't know  
    that it was necessary to dispatch with her  
    at all.  She was a woman of discretion, who  
    knew that some information was best kept to  
    oneself.  She was privy to secrets over the  
    years that she managed to keep.  I feel  
    sure that had this been discussed with me  
    before any action was taken, I could have  
    spoken with her and dissuaded her from  
    cooperating further with Agent Mulder."
    
    "Just as you avoided cooperating with Agent  
    Mulder?"  There was a nasty edge to  
    Spender's voice.
    
    "Just as you've done so much to hinder him  
    over the years."
    
    The assemblage looked between the two of  
    them as they spoke, like the crowd at  
    Wimbledon.
    
    "You're treading on dangerous ground, Miss  
    Stevens.  Don't speak on matters you have  
    not been fully apprised of."
    
    "I think I know enough to put two and two  
    together on this.  I did meet with Agents  
    Mulder and Scully over lunch, but told them  
    nothing of help.  Unless you count the  
    suggestion that my mother was involved in  
    fraud 'helpful'."
    
    "Enough of this," barked a voice with a  
    harsh New York accent.  "We're getting  
    nowhere here.  What's done is done.  As  
    much power as the committee has, Charlotte,  
    we cannot raise the dead."
    
    "I understand that very well, Johnny."
    
    "So what would you have me do?" Johnny took  
    a long drag on his cigar, the end sparking  
    to red.
    
    "Nothing here can be undone," Charlotte  
    said.  "But I ask that in the future,  
    should such situations arise with the  
    families of those involved here, they be  
    apprised of the circumstances.  My mother  
    didn't know what she was revealing--if  
    she'd known it was a matter of such  
    importance, she would never have spoken a  
    word."
    
    Around the room, heads nodded in assent.  
    Their families may not have known the  
    nature of their work, but they all  
    understood its importance.
    
    "Agreed," said Richard with a nod.  "Now,  
    on to more pressing matters.  I believe you  
    have an update for us, Marcus?"
    
    Charlotte relaxed back into the comfortable leather chair as  
    Marcus began outlining his engineers' most recent achievement.
    
     
    
    ****  
    Chapter 10  
    ****
    
    Mulder sat in another uncomfortable orange chair,  
    waiting.  He'd calculated the number of ceiling tiles  
    in the hallway--214--and monitored the average length  
    of time the doctors spent in their patients' rooms--  
    six minutes--and was now busy figuring out the ratio  
    of avocado floor tiles to melon ones.
    
    The door to Scully's room swung open and the doctor's  
    shoes squeaked against the garish tiles.  Mulder  
    barely looked at him; the doctor had been clear in his  
    opinion of Mulder when he and Scully had presented the  
    chip to be implanted into her neck.  The doctor had  
    thought they were both crazy, and had nearly refused  
    to be involved.  It had of course been Scully who  
    convinced him that there would be no harm in trying.  
    Either nothing would happen and she would resume  
    treatment as she had been receiving it, or it would  
    work as she expected it to.
    
    It wasn't even an operation, really, just a bit of  
    anesthetic on her neck and a quick slice of the  
    scalpel.  She hadn't told him to leave the room, but  
    he couldn't stay.  He wasn't even sure why--he'd seen  
    her cut and bleeding before and this would at least be  
    for her own good.  He only knew that he couldn't stay  
    and watch that chip disappear into her neck.  In the  
    abstract, it had seemed like such a good decision, one  
    that would save her life.  Yet he could only see the  
    specter of the smoking man as the doctor stood ready  
    with scalpel and chip.  So he had fled to the tacky  
    refuge of the hallway.
    
    Less than ten minutes had passed between his flight  
    from the room and the doctor's departure.  Drawing a  
    deep breath, he stood and pushed the door open.
    
    Scully sat on the bed, two pillows propped neatly  
    behind her.  Before Mulder could draw a breath to ask,  
    she drew her hair aside and turned her head slightly,  
    revealing a neat white bandage to him.  "All done."
    
    Stepping closer to the edge of the bed, he traced his  
    index finger down the taped edge of the gauze.  "So  
    that's it."  She dropped her hair back and he drew his  
    hand away, sitting half on the edge of the bed.
    
    "That's it," she echoed.
    
    "What do we do now?"
    
    "Dr. Zuckerman thinks I'm crazy for even doing this,  
    but he doesn't see any need to keep me here.  As soon  
    as I get changed, I can go home.  And then...I guess I  
    wait and see."
    
    "It seems too easy."  He toyed with the edge of the  
    battered hospital blanket.
    
    She nodded and reached back to touch the gauze,  
    herself.  "It does, after all this.  But we still  
    don't know anything.  We won't for a few weeks."
    
    "Weeks?"  He looked up, meeting her entirely  
    reasonable gaze.  How could she remain so pragmatic?
    
    "I was scheduled to have another MRI on Friday to  
    monitor my radiation treatments.  I'll still have  
    that, of course, but we won't have any way of knowing  
    whether what we see there is a result of the  
    treatments or this chip.  Then I'll just wait a few  
    weeks and let this chip do whatever it's supposed to  
    do.  Dr. Zuckerman is going to schedule me another MRI  
    in three weeks; we should know something then."
    
    He forced a smile that appeared more enthusiastic than  
    he felt.  "Well, then, what are we waiting for?  Get  
    dressed so we can blow this joint."
    
    As he headed back out the door, he saw her trying to  
    suppress a smirk at his lame attempt at humor.
    
    Just maybe, things were going to be all right.
    
    ****
    
    A corner of the tarp flapped loose on the back of the  
    truck bed; if Charlotte had peered closely as it drove  
    down the tree-lined drive, she could have seen the  
    curve of hoof it revealed.  She didn't care to look.  
    Making the decision to destroy all evidence had been  
    simple enough and easy to accept.  Even acknowledging  
    that this meant the death of Belle had not been  
    difficult.  But actually killing her had been more  
    wrenching than anything she'd ever done.
    
    It was no crime to destroy one's own property, of  
    course, so long as the end of one's living property is  
    humane.  She could have simply shot Belle in the  
    middle of one of the pastures and no one could have  
    done a thing about it.  But that would not have the  
    intended effect.  The quiet death in the night of an  
    almost-forty pony would attract no attention.  One  
    shot, far too much tranquilizer, and it was done;  
    without an insurance claim by her, there would be no  
    one to question the death.
    
    The truck carting away the body disappeared into the  
    descending dusk, and she turned to enter the house.  
    The pack of corgis watched her as she passed through  
    the entryway, only Tristram rising to follow her  
    through the house.  Moving purposefully, she went  
    directly to her mother's office to begin the removal  
    of more delicate evidence.  Casting her eyes about the  
    room, the glint of the setting sun on her mother's  
    collection of silver-framed photographs caught her  
    attention.  Quickly taking inventory of the pictures  
    and thinking of the paperwork to disappear, she  
    stepped back into the library and dropped to her knees  
    in front of the fireplace.  In two minutes, she had a  
    small blaze kindling, deepening the burgundy tones of  
    the room and casting out the damp spring evening.
    
    Returning to the office, she gathered four of the  
    frames and carried them to the fireplace.  Tristram  
    hopped onto the couch, alert eyes following her  
    movement.  Removing the photos was simple, and she  
    soon had the four in hand.  First into the blaze was  
    Bea and Galahad at Westminster; that went with little  
    difficultly.  She had not been lying when she told  
    Mulder that her mother often seemed to care more for  
    her animals than her children, and Galahad above the  
    others.  A magazine-perfect shot of Julie foxhunting  
    Belle went into the flames next, as easily as the  
    first.  Thom hitting a tennis ball to Galahad followed  
    with little sentiment.  Charlotte lingered on the last  
    photo, however.  The shot of her on Ophelia was such  
    an image of show ring perfection she hated to part  
    with it.
    
    The scuttle of the dogs' nails on the slate entryway  
    floor and the creak of a floorboard interrupted her  
    reverie and she nearly cast the photo into the fire  
    without any conscious thought.  She tightened her grip  
    on the corner of the page as she turned.  "You really  
    must learn to knock."
    
    "Tsk, tsk.  I see the hospitality here is already in  
    decline."
    
    "Friends of the family are always welcomed with the  
    greatest of conviviality."
    
    "Always so wise, my dear Charlotte.  And always one  
    step ahead of the game."  He stepped closer and tossed  
    a cigarette butt into the smoldering pieces of  
    photographs.
    
    "Just doing a little cleaning up around here.  Someone  
    must clean up the messes, after all."  She rose to  
    face him, wishing she were eye-level.
    
    "You're quite good at cleaning up messes," he smirked,  
    "especially other people's."
    
    On the couch, Tristram sat up, alert, watching the two  
    of them.  The foxy little dog's seemed to understand  
    the tension crackling around him, and chose to bound  
    to Charlotte's side, where he sat like a sentinel  
    statue.
    
    She patted the dog and responded coolly, "Perhaps if  
    other people took time to think their actions through  
    beforehand, their messes would not become my problems  
    with such alarming frequency."
    
    "Anticipating messes and averting them has always been  
    your specialty.  I see you're at it once again."  He  
    nodded towards the fireplace.
    
    "I'm just doing what should have been done in the  
    first place.  It would have been so easy, if you'd  
    just taken the time to ask."
    
    "Like you took the time to ask me about sending that  
    chip to Agent Scully?"
    
    She met his eyes and refused to look away.  "I don't  
    know anything about Agent Scully receiving a chip."
    
    "Spare me, Charlotte.  I'm not so nave as some of our  
    compatriots and am well aware that Agent Scully  
    received an 'anonymous' envelope the other day,  
    containing a chip identical to one that went missing  
    from our vaults the day prior.  Curious, isn't it?"
    
    "It certainly sounds curiously like something you  
    would do."
    
    "Are you going to accuse me of this?"  Incredulity  
    crept into his voice for the first time she had ever  
    heard.
    
    "As far as I know, nothing happened at all.  And I'm  
    just disposing of some of my mother's things, that are  
    no longer of importance."
    
    "We have an understanding then?"
    
    "I understand that my mother is dead, the case she  
    brought to the FBI is no longer being investigated as  
    you wished, and now I am lady of the house here and  
    free to dispose of what I wish.  As to the well-being  
    of Agents Mulder and Scully, it's outside my realm of  
    knowledge.  You should understand that you're no  
    longer welcome at Avalon."
    
    "Fair enough.  I'll be seeing you, Charlotte."
    
    Without waiting for her reply, he faded back into the  
    shadows of the room and glided out the door.  
    Charlotte sighed and headed back to the office, and  
    began pulling paperwork out of the filing cabinets,  
    Tristram trailing along behind her.  Most of the  
    sheets were merely tossed in the trashcan; a smaller  
    pile was made on the desk, which she then took back to  
    the fireplace.  She reached down to stroke the loyal  
    dog's head as she watched the old paper burn quickly,  
    leaving no trace that a trio of the Stevens' animals  
    had ever existed.
    
    ****
    
    Mulder was surprised to see Scully bent industriously  
    over her keyboard when he entered the office.  Since  
    implanting the chip several weeks ago, she'd been  
    feeling better, though she had made no mention of any  
    appointments to confirm that her good health was more  
    than coincidence.
    
    "Morning, Scully."
    
    Her head whipped around from the monitor.  "Oh, good  
    morning."
    
    For a few moments, they settled into companionable  
    silence, before Scully spoke up once more, with some  
    measure of hesitation.  "What are you doing the week  
    of September sixth?"
    
    He wasn't quite sure how to respond to her query.  
    What on earth was she talking about?  "Nothing that  
    I'm aware of.  It's a long way--" in the seconds it  
    took him to speak, a conversation on her couch  
    replayed in his head.  Name a date, he'd said.  "Oh."
    
    "You were serious when you made the offer, weren't  
    you?  I don't want to impose on you, but I thought..."  
    She trailed off, looking embarrassed, face reddening  
    as she looked down at her hands on the keyboard, hair  
    obscuring her face.
    
    "No, no, I definitely meant it.  I would love nothing  
    more.  So what do you want to see across the pond?"
    
    ****  
    End  
    ****


End file.
